


unrequired love

by thedoomofvalyria



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Embarrassing Situations, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Forced Proximity, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meddlesome Friends, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Slow Burn, Tea, Unconventional Careers, magical mishaps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 48,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27112657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedoomofvalyria/pseuds/thedoomofvalyria
Summary: It was becoming increasingly clear that Harry Potter’s obsession with Draco Malfoy was a lifelong condition, not a symptom of any specific circumstance.Ginny Weasley has had enough. And so, a newly single Harry Potter finds himself at loose ends. Good thing he's about to (literally) crash into a highly suspicious life-debt/curse situation with Draco Malfoy.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 86
Kudos: 225





	1. prologue

Ginny Weasley was tired of sharing her bed with Draco Malfoy.

Especially since he wasn’t actually there.

No, a flesh and blood Draco Malfoy would have been another problem entirely. Would, in fact, hardly have been a problem at all. He would never be her first pick (or second, or third, etc. etc.) for a shag (or conversation, or drinks at the pub, etc. etc.), but he certainly was fit. White gold hair falling naturally into his eyes, body all graceful angles and subtle muscle - so different from the severe lines of his youth. Nothing wrong with a little bit of eye candy. And then a simple hex, or even a swift kick to the head, would resolve the matter once and for all.

But the Draco Malfoy in her bed every night was not of flesh and blood. At times, he was little more than a whisper. 

It would start with an offhand remark, a casual mention of running into Malfoy at the shops. And then there’d be a gleam and a sudden distance in Harry’s eyes, and Ginny would know she’d lost him.

It was alright back in her fifth year, when Harry had been so sure Malfoy was up to something. Ginny and Harry were just getting together then, and she’d been able to accept the fixation easily enough. The fight against Voldemort had been so uncertain, the future so vague, that she did not begrudge Harry the comfort of a straightforward enemy. He needed something to fight, someone to blame, and there was Draco Malfoy, (un)happy to oblige. The hate between the two of them had been a safety net for Harry. Familiar and predictable. So when Harry brought his name into bed, angry and righteous, Ginny had bitten her tongue. 

Even a year ago, she had been patient. The war was won, but the losses had still been fresh in everyone’s minds. Harry had been preoccupied, assisting in rounding up the last Death Eaters, funding reparations of Hogwarts, speaking at Malfoy’s trial. There had been so much darkness, things were still so broken, that she did not begrudge Harry the comfort of fighting for some light. He needed something to protect, someone to save, and there was Draco Malfoy, still somewhat (un)happy, if grateful, to oblige. So when night after night, Harry whispered in the dark _(He was so scared, Gin. For himself, for his mother. I might have done the wrong things too, to save my mother. And he helped me, in the end.),_ Ginny had simply massaged his shoulders and nodded.

Sixth year schoolboy grudges were one thing, and heroic, empathetic testimonies were quite another. But distracted musings about Malfoy’s oddly diverse spice purchases _(Do you think he cooks, Gin? That’s not very pure-blood, is it?)_ while Harry’s hand traced tantalizingly up her back… well, she had to draw the line somewhere.

It was becoming increasingly clear that Harry Potter’s obsession with Draco Malfoy was a lifelong condition, not a symptom of any specific circumstance.

Ginny Weasley would always love Harry Potter, but she couldn’t remember what it felt like to be _in love_ with him. Maybe she never had been.

And so, on the night when Blaise Zabini _finally_ winked at her from across the pub, she stomped down her guilt until it turned into something more useful, and went home to break up with her boyfriend.

She used to think it would break _her_ , the day Harry looked up from the wreckage of the war and no longer needed her. But she had been the one to look up, and all she felt was mild exasperation.

It was past time she got out of Harry Potter’s bed, and maybe, with a little of the right kind of luck, she could get flesh and blood Draco Malfoy into it.


	2. meddlesome friends and spilled sugar

Harry lay flat on his back on the cobblestone walkway of his back garden. He was drenched in sweat, but the sun felt pleasant against his face and his breathing was finally beginning to slow.

A satisfied groan escaped his lips as the cobblestones loosened a particularly stubborn knot in his left shoulder, one that had been troubling him for days. A few months ago, Harry had figured out how to charm the walkway so the stones moved in slow, massaging circles, but he didn’t use it as often as he should. It always felt too indulgent somehow, as if slowing his pace for even a few minutes would end in disaster.

That was probably more of the war trauma, he supposed, like Hermione was always going on about. But Harry didn’t see the point in dwelling on darkness. Voldemort had taken up quite enough of his life, thank you very much, and Harry was more than ready to just get on with things.

He stretched his arms above his head, relishing the tiny pops of his spine, and mulled over what he might like to cook for breakfast.

But then he remembered.

Ginny had gone, and there was no one inside his homey little cottage to share the meal.

Harry sighed. Scraping his fingertips against the rough grit of the walkway, he tried to convince himself that bacon sandwiches were all the company he’d need.

In the end, he grumpily ate an apple summoned from the tree in the corner of the garden and fell asleep spreadeagled in his overgrown grass.

***

Harry startled awake to the sound of the cottage door banging open.

“Harry?” Ron’s voice called. “You out here, mate?”

Wincing under the harsh glare of the mid-day sun, Harry scrubbed a hand across his eyes and sat up. As he got to his feet, he waved at Ron unenthusiastically and paused to flick an ant off the back of his wrist.

Harry scowled. Dirt had stuck to the drying sweat on his skin and he was uncomfortably itchy, not to mention his aching calves and empty stomach. He needed a proper meal and a long soak in the bath, not an inquisition from his meddlesome ( _and well-meaning,_ he reminded himself guiltily) friends.

Ron’s eyes narrowed as Harry approached. “What’re you doing? You look awful.”

“Went for a run,” Harry grunted, pushing past Ron into the tidy kitchen. It was Harry’s favorite part of the cottage, the one room he made a point of keeping meticulously clean. 

Growing up at the Dursleys, the kitchen had been a place of taunts and reprimands, of hunger and hate-filled stares. He was tolerated there, but never welcome, treated like a servant when he wasn’t simply banished from sight. 

Kitchens were for families, for long meals and lazy conversation, for steaming drinks in the hush of the morning as the sun rose over the garden. They were for soups and pudding and laughter, for welcomes and late nights and warm goodbyes, for everything Harry couldn’t possibly imagine as a child, but somehow always missed. And even after a year in his cottage, even without Ginny in it, Harry still marveled at the joy of having a kitchen of his own.

The cheery yellow walls settled Harry, calming his nerves as he made his way over to where Hermione was bustling around the stove making tea.

Harry kissed her cheek and reached to take the mugs from her hands. “I’ll get it, Hermione.”

Her nose wrinkled as she gave him an appraising look. “Sit down, Harry. You look awful.”

“So I’ve heard,” Harry grumbled, but he obediently shuffled over to the scrubbed wooden table and collapsed into a chair. 

Ron hummed to himself while poking around in the cupboards, finally emerging with a box of chocolate covered biscuits and a triumphant grin. When Ron plopped down on the chair beside him, Harry ignored the proffered box and pretended to be absorbed in stretching his calves.

Shrugging to himself, Ron started in on the biscuits, managing to inhale half of them by the time Hermione brought over the tea.

The silence lingered. 

Harry propped his head in a hand and fidgeted with the sugar spoon.

“So where’s Ginny?” Ron said abruptly. “She doesn’t usually have practice on Saturdays.”

Harry jumped, knocking his knees against the underside of the table. He yelped in pain and accidentally flung the sugar spoon into the air. “Wh-what?” he spluttered, looking away. “Ginny – she, er… didn’t she tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Ron asked, cocking his head inquisitively at Harry.

“Ron!” Hermione scolded. She had picked up the spoon and was now brushing sugar off her blouse. 

“Oh alright,” Ron muttered. “‘Course she told me, you wanker!” He smacked Harry on the shoulder. “But I would’ve liked to hear it from you!”

Harry jerked away from Ron and rubbed his shoulder, still refusing to meet his friend’s eyes.

“You split up with your girlfriend and I don’t hear from you for a _week?”_ Ron exclaimed. “No floo call, no owl, nothing? I’m supposed to be your best mate!”

“You really might have let us know you were alright, Harry,” Hermione added with a frown, though her tone was much gentler than Ron’s. “We’ve been worried.”

_“And_ you missed Sunday lunch!” Ron shook his head. “Mum was not happy about that.”

“Hang on –” Harry attempted, but Ron spoke right over him.

“And now we come over and you look like you’ve been hexed!”

Hermione clucked her tongue. “More like you haven’t showered in a week –”

“I went for a run!” Harry shouted, glaring at Hermione. “This is what I look like after I run.”

Hermione responded with another disapproving tsk. “And were you sleeping in the garden, Harry? _Why_ were you sleeping in the garden? You can’t possibly miss Ginny so much that you –”

“I wasn’t _sleeping_ in the garden –”

“You’re covered in dirt and there’s grass in your hair,” Ron pointed out.

“I fell asleep in the garden after my run, that’s not the same thing –”

Hermione tried to take his hand. “Harry, we’re just worried that you –”

Harry shoved himself away from the table. “Enough!” he yelled, turning his back on them. Crossing the small space, he braced his hands against the counter and hung his head over the sink. 

In the sudden quiet, Harry could hear the sound of the cuckoo clock from the next room. He breathed in and out slowly, focusing on counting the ticks.

“Harry?” Hermione spoke tentatively. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. After a few more steadying breaths, he forced himself to walk back over to the table and sit down. “You know Ginny broke up with _me,_ right?” he asked, anger not quite masking the strain in his voice. He crossed his arms defensively. “If I’m acting a little strange, I think I’m allowed.”

“Of course you are, Harry,” Hermione soothed, her expression softening.

“But I’m _fine,”_ Harry insisted. “Stop all this –” he waved a hand in the air – “all this _panicking_. I’m sweaty and disgusting because I fell asleep in the sun after taking a longer run than usual, not because I’m out of my mind with grief, alright? I’m sorry I haven’t talked to you, I was just – well, I don’t really know what, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

“We don’t have to talk about it, Harry” Hermione rushed to reassure him. “We just wanted to see you.”

Catching Harry’s skeptical frown, Hermione elbowed Ron with a pointed look.

“S’alright, mate,” Ron said quickly. He leaned back in his chair and hooked his hands behind his head. Whether to appease Harry with a more relaxed pose or as an excuse to escape Hermione’s prodding, Harry wasn’t sure. “You listen to the Cannons game last night?”

“Pathetic defense,” Harry said, shaking his head.

“Oi!” Ron cried. “They’ve the best Keeper in the league!”

“Right,” Harry snorted. “Too bad the Beaters have their heads up their arses half the time.”

Ron sputtered in feigned outrage and Harry laughed, finally beginning to unwind. Hermione rolled her eyes at them fondly and hefted a sheaf of parchment out of her bag. In between Harry’s Cannons insults and Ron’s attempts to defend his beloved team’s (mediocre, at best) players, Hermione told them about her progress learning to draft legislation. She was only an intern at the Department of International Magical Cooperation and wouldn’t be in a position to propose new laws for years, but Hermione always had believed in being prepared. Besides, she would likely die of boredom without an intricate research project to consume her free time. Harry found himself smiling softly at the thought, grateful that his clever friend now had the time to pursue subjects of her own choosing, rather than scrambling for miracles to save Harry from Voldemort’s latest plot.

Unease prickled through Harry’s veins, chasing away the moment of warmth. Under the table, his fingers tightened on his thighs. He pried them loose and shook out his hands, attempting to dispel the fidgety panic that threatened to rise. Thoughts of Ginny trailed in the wake of his fear, reminding him that he now spent every night alone.

Hermione’s voice faltered, and her look of concern shattered the fragile bubble of distraction the conversation had built.

Harry tried to rewind his brain, desperate to snatch up any detail he could comment on, any question he could ask to divert Hermione’s attention from him, but it was no good. There’d be no going back now. He swallowed hard and fixed his gaze on the swaying tree branches framed by the cottage’s large windows. 

“Did Ginny, er – did she say – why?” he asked in a small voice. 

Harry coughed once, roughly, as Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance he couldn’t interpret. Though neither objected to the tactless subject change, they made no move to answer.

“Do you think it’s because I didn’t go into Auror training?” Harry tugged at the collar of his t-shirt, then dropped his hand back to his lap. “Or – or because I didn’t sit for my NEWTs?”

Ron raised his eyebrows. “Mate, do you even _know_ Ginny?”

“No, I know,” Harry backpedaled, feeling the nape of his neck heat. “That couldn’t be it. I just – don’t know what I did wrong.” 

Ron’s mouth flattened as he gnawed on a cheek, uncharacteristically hesitant. His eyes darted to Hermione.

“I don’t think it’s anything you did, Harry,” Hermione said gently.

“Then – why?” Harry looked up at her, silently pleading.

She sighed, but then her eyes hardened. “Can I ask you a difficult question?”

Harry wanted to bury his head in his hands, but he settled for squeezing his eyes shut briefly. He took a deep breath and nodded.

“Do you miss Ginny?”

“Of course I do,” Harry said earnestly, brow wrinkling. “What do you mean? We’ve been living together for months!”

Hermione leaned toward Harry, bracing her elbows on the table. “What do you miss about her?”

“What do I miss about her?” he echoed. “Hermione, you _know_ I –”

She interrupted him with a shrug. “Humor me.”

“I – I miss – well, everything.” Harry blew out an exasperated breath and felt his hair flutter against his forehead. He brushed it out of his eyes impatiently.

Hermione didn’t say anything, just waited for him to continue.

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, not sure how to put it into words. He resisted the urge to get up and start pacing the kitchen. “I miss cooking for her, and having her in bed at night. I miss having someone to talk to. I miss the smell of her shampoo in the shower and making her laugh. I miss the cottage being alive. Now it’s just –” he looked down at his palms as he whispered the last word – “empty.”

Hermione’s eyes filled with pity, and Harry suddenly felt so drained that he couldn’t even be angry about it. Ron tensed when Hermione nudged him, but then stood and busied himself clearing the table. Spoons clinked metallically against the sink as he started the washing up.

Hermione turned her attention back to Harry. “Harry, the thing is – you could say that about _anyone.”_

Harry frowned and pushed his chair away from the table, its legs scraping roughly against the tile floor. He cringed at the sound, then allowed himself to droop. Resting his elbows against his thighs, he tangled his fingers into his hair. “What – Hermione, I don’t understand.”

“Oh, Harry – I’m sorry, but for a while now – I mean, we didn’t want to say anything, but –” Hermione trailed off. Rising from her seat, she maneuvered around the table to Harry’s side and placed a hand against his shoulder. “It seemed like you and Ginny were keeping each other company while leading separate lives. Like you were roommates.”

Harry scoffed, shrugging away from her hand. “We were not like _roommates.”_ His eyes widened slightly, and he shot a nervous glance over his shoulder at Ron.

“Ok,” Hermione said, resting her weight against the table, “like roommates who indulged each other’s sexual needs.”

A mug clattered against the sink as Ron groaned. “Hermione! That’s my _sister_ you’re talking about.”

Hermione waved a hand at him unapologetically, still focused on Harry.

Harry blinked up at her, confused. “But that’s what dating _is,”_ he said slowly. “Friends, roommates, who also –” he made a vague gesture, blushing faintly – “you know.”

Hermione looked at him sadly. “No Harry, it’s not.”

***

Harry strode down Diagon Alley, hands in the pockets of his light jacket and neatly dodging anyone who attempted to get close.

The hero worship had died down somewhat, now that the one-year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts had come and gone. People were moving on, and the public had slowly cottoned on to the fact that Harry was much more likely to be friendly when treated like any other passing stranger.

But Harry was too flustered to be bothered with even normal pleasantries today. He probably should have avoided the wizarding area altogether (he probably should at least have showered), but his feet had automatically steered him in the direction of his favorite sandwich shop as soon as Ron and Hermione had left the cottage.

He kept his head down and kept walking, Hermione’s parting words echoing in his ears.

_I don’t think this is necessarily a bad thing, Harry. You’ve never been fully – focused on Ginny. It might be time to, I don’t know – lean into the things that had you distracted._

Hermione hadn’t answered when Harry demanded to know _what things?_ and had soon after propelled a suspiciously amused-looking Ron out the door.

Harry stopped short at the sight of Madam Malkin’s, realizing he had somehow managed to miss the sandwich shop by several blocks. He shook his head at his own idiocy and spun around, only to stumble. He caught himself, somewhat painfully, against the pointed metal fence surrounding the outdoor seating area of a tiny restaurant. Snatching his hand away with a groan, Harry started back the way he’d come, only to stumble again a few steps later.

He hit the ground this time, knees stinging where they collided with the paving stones. Before he could push himself upright, a wave of dizziness overtook him. Harry clapped a hand to his forehead and gasped in a breath. The air in front of him was thick and unpleasant, pushing against him like an invisible wall. He stood hesitantly and took a careful step forward. There was nothing in front of him, nothing to physically impede his progress at all, but with every step his discomfort grew. His t-shirt clung to the sweat that dampened his body, and a peculiar hollow feeling began to spread through his chest. Panting harshly, Harry clutched at his ribs, trying to understand the _need_ that pressed against his sternum, as if his bones were about to shatter apart from pure want.

The world tilted sideways, and Harry pitched forward as everything went black.

The air rushed past Harry, thickening further until it seemed to be squeezing him flat. 

And then he was suddenly falling. He flailed his arms, letting out a yelp as he crashed into – something. Something firm, yet slightly squishy. Something pleasantly _warm_. Something that smelled of a forest in the springtime, fresh and green, clean as rain. Harry breathed deep, relaxing as that horrible, hollow feeling seemed to bleed out of him.

And then the something spoke. “Potter?” it choked out.

Harry tensed. The voice was unmistakable. 

Harry’s eyes snapped open to find himself sprawled atop Draco Malfoy.

Harry had always thought of grey as a cold color – harsh, untouchable – but in the moment before Malfoy scrambled out from under him, Harry looked into his surprisingly lovely eyes, and all he could think of was the coziness of his cottage beneath the grey sky of a gathering storm.


	3. temptation and tea leaves

Draco Malfoy had always known he was beneath Harry Potter, though he’d never expected to experience it quite so literally.

He hadn’t meant anything by it, the mocking thought that flickered like a guttering candle behind his closed eyes. The nameless assailant had shoved Draco roughly against a stone wall, and as he braced for the blow something in him had called out to the past. _Where was Potter when you needed him?_ he’d thought, darkly amused. His own bitter little joke to complement the punch, a balm of irony to soothe the sting. 

Saint Potter, always the hero, always ready to intervene. Except for when it really mattered. Except for sixth year, when he’d trailed Draco through the castle, stalking the surface darkness and failing to see the desperation beneath.

Draco didn’t suppose that mattered much. Potter had saved him, in the end, from fire and from Azkaban. That was more than Draco deserved. He certainly did not deserve to be saved from this moment of violence. And so, when his cheek exploded with pain, Draco had almost welcomed it. 

But apparently, the universe hadn’t been done fucking with Draco Malfoy for the day, because the boy wonder himself had fallen from the sky then, crashing into Draco and making him long for the simple pain of a beating. Staring into those startled green eyes hurt far more.

Trying not to panic, Draco pushed Potter off him and rose to his feet. 

“Malfoy!” Potter cried, leaping up after him. “I’m so sorry – I –”

Potter cut off abruptly and raised a hand to Draco’s cheek, fingers trailing lightly along the bone. “Your eye –”

Draco hissed and flinched back, wincing as his skin throbbed beneath Potter’s touch. He brought his own hand up protectively, gently covering the heated, rapidly bruising flesh.

“I’m sorry,” Potter repeated, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Despite looking thoroughly abashed, he stepped closer to Draco. “I didn’t think I hit your face, but I guess I must have knocked you with my forehead or something. It looks pretty bad. Do you want me to –” he bit his lip, but then jutted his chin forward stubbornly and continued – “do you want me to heal it?”

“No,” Draco blurted, too forceful. He glanced nervously around the small square they stood in, but the surrounding streets were empty, the man who attacked him long gone. With a sigh of relief, Draco said, more calmly this time, “No, thank you. It’s fine.”

Potter frowned, unconvinced, but he nodded reluctantly. “I really am sorry.”

“It’s fine. You didn’t –” Draco floundered, too exhausted to explain, particularly to someone as decent as Potter. “It’s fine,” he repeated, rather than finishing the thought.

Draco could see the argument brewing in the slant of Potter’s mouth. 

“Where did you come from, anyway?” he asked quickly, hoping to stave off any further concern from Potter. 

“Er – apparition accident, I think?” Potter replied, rubbing the back of his neck. Draco noted the faintest hint of a blush coloring his cheeks.

He raised an eyebrow. That explanation seemed highly suspect – but Draco was not about to question the motives of Harry Potter, of all people. At least, not _aloud._

They stared at each other for a long moment, Potter shuffling his feet awkwardly and Draco taking in his disheveled appearance ( _more disheveled than usual anyway,_ an unhelpful voice in the back of Draco’s mind whispered). 

Potter’s face was drawn, his normally bright eyes hooded by deep shadows. Though his hair wasn’t quite as unruly as usual, that was only because it was plastered to his head with sweat. Draco had the sudden urge to feed Potter a hot meal and draw him a bath, but he shook off the unwelcome impulse. He had no business worrying over Harry Potter.

Draco’s eyes darted around the square again, as he struggled to think of a way to extricate himself from this mortifying situation. He had just about settled on forcing out a polite _good day, Potter_ and fleeing, when Potter cleared his throat and spoke.

“I was going to get a sandwich.” The words tumbled off his tongue in such a rush that it took Draco several seconds to decipher their meaning. Potter’s blush deepened as he continued. “Do you – er, do you want to – to come along?”

There was a thunderstruck silence. Potter’s eyes widened, as if he was just as shocked at the offer as Draco was.

Draco opened his mouth without having any notion of what he was about to say, and then closed it abruptly when something disturbing flitted across Potter’s expression. It looked suspiciously like – _hope._

“Or I could buy you a cup of tea?” Potter added, the words as tempting as sugar.

Draco blinked rapidly and straightened his tie. “No, I –” he started, voice embarrassingly faint. He trained his eyes on the ground and tried again. “No, thank you. That – that is very kind, but I – well –” Draco’s fingers twitched, aching for the comfort of his wand. He hid his hands in the folds of his robe and balled them into fists. “I should be getting back to work.”

“Oh! Right, sorry to – er, to keep you.” Potter tugged at his matted strands of hair. He looked off-balance somehow, as if Draco’s refusal had rocked the ground beneath his feet. But then he brightened, and Draco almost staggered back under the force of his smile.

“Where do you – I mean, do you want me to – bring you something?” Potter asked, light suddenly dancing in his eyes. “Tea? Or – or a healing potion?”

Draco weakened. Potter sounded eager, almost adorably so, and Draco’s cheek _was_ beginning to ache dreadfully. _Surely it couldn’t hurt to –_

No.

Draco knew where this road led, and he had no interest in seeing the end of it.

“No. No, thank you. That’s quite alright,” Draco said firmly.

He should have left then, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to. His gaze lingered on Potter a moment longer, and a tiny wisp of his concern bled from him. “I think you’d better get yourself that sandwich though,” he said, brow creased. He told himself it was confusion, not worry. “You look –” Draco hesitated. Potter’s shoulders had hunched almost imperceptibly, as if he anticipated an insult. “– tired,” Draco finished, not unkindly.

“Yeah.” Potter huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh, then shook his head. “Er – rough day.” He met Draco’s eyes and offered him a wan smile. “I’ll – I’ll do that.”

“Good.” Draco nodded at him. “Well –” 

Potter kicked aimlessly at the debris by the edge of the road. “Alright. Er –”

“Goodbye, Potter,” Draco said, turning to go.

“Bye, Malfoy,” Potter said quietly. Then, a heartbeat later, he called after him. “See you around.”

And there was that flicker of hope again, far more dangerous in Potter’s voice than when it had ghosted across his eyes.

Draco shivered. He wanted to look back at Potter, almost _did_ look back, but then he wrapped his robes around himself like a shield and kept his eyes on the road.

***

Draco peered cautiously through the front window of Novelle Teas. There was only one customer inside, an elderly witch dressed in flowing peach robes. She was hovering near the samples in the corner of the shop, smelling them each in turn.

Feeling vaguely ashamed of himself, Draco tarried in the road until the woman ordered her drink, then slipped inside while Maeve was busy helping her select the best pastry to complement her tea.

Draco smiled in spite of himself. Maeve insisted on specific flavor pairings and never allowed her customers to choose their food freely. She claimed that tea was _too serious a matter to mess about with willy-nilly, Draco, my dear_ , and indeed, in the year Draco had worked for her, not one person had ever complained. Maeve always knew best, and Draco found that to be surprisingly comforting.

He didn’t relish a chat with her at the moment though, not with a sore face and lingering thoughts of Potter. He had almost made it to the door of the back room, already grateful that he’d dodged the encounter, when Maeve called after him.

“Draco, love, will you fetch me another container of your white citrus blend? I want to wrap up a sample for Mrs. Peakwright.”

“Of course,” he replied without turning, not wanting Maeve to see his clenched jaw. “Just a moment.”

Draco delivered the tea quickly, sparing one winning smile for their customer when she thanked him, then darted back through the storage room to take refuge in his tiny workshop. He collapsed against the wall, but did not succumb to the urge to sink to the floor. 

Inhaling deeply, Draco let the comforting scent of his spices and tea leaves loosen his tense muscles. By the time the chimes of the door signaled Mrs. Peakwright’s departure, he had calmed enough to sit down at his desk and plan his afternoon. But just as he began reviewing the week’s receipts, gauging which blends he’d need to replenish, Maeve’s voice shattered his hard-won focus. 

“Draco! Do you have my take-away? I’m starved!”

Draco sucked in a startled breath and accidentally knocked his stack of papers to the floor. Bemoaning the miserable luck he seemed permanently cursed with today, he dropped to his knees and muttered crossly to himself as he gathered the receipts into a pile. Re-sorting them all would add at least an hour to his work.

With a sigh, Draco abandoned the papers and clambered upright. This was all his own fault. He knew better than to venture into the more populated areas of Diagon, but he had gone and done it anyway. 

Draco had slept poorly the night before, and after a long morning spent experimenting with a new tea flavor, his eyelids had begun to droop and he fancied some fresh air. He had told himself it would be alright, that he’d just nip out for a walk, pick up some fish and chips – but he’d been lying to himself. Malfoys were not deserving of such simple pleasures, and nothing good came from fighting that. Draco had forgotten himself, and now, worse than the punch _and_ the debacle with Potter, he’d disappointed Maeve, and she’d go hungry in payment for his arrogance. 

Draco made his way sheepishly into the main room of the shop and leaned against the counter where Maeve was mixing a fresh batch of currant scones. Her grey hair was held back from her face with a brightly colored headband, and flour dusted her temple, caught in the deep wrinkles of her forehead.

“I’m sorry, Maeve,” Draco said, “I never quite made it to the pub.” He risked a glance at his boss, but Maeve just waved a hand at him, seemingly unbothered. Draco could feel her curiosity though, and he withered under her expectant silence. Tapping a finger against the counter, he continued reluctantly. “I – ran into someone.”

“Ah,” Maeve said, nodding sagely. “Lovers quarrel.”

“What?” Draco cried, hands tightening on the edge of the counter. “No!”

Maeve snorted in disbelief, but then her expression grew grim. Without looking at Draco, she tipped the dough onto the floured cutting board and began shaping it into a tidy ball. “You shouldn’t go back to someone who hits you, Draco,” she said softly.

Draco’s hand flew up to cover his eye. He bit back a yelp of pain and blushed, embarrassed by the involuntary reaction. In a belated attempt to mask the motion, he brushed back his hair. “He did not _hit_ –” Draco started indignantly, but quickly realized how foolish that sounded. “I mean, he’s not the one who – and he is not my – _urgh!”_ Flustered, Draco threw up his hands and glowered at Maeve. 

Expertly wielding a knife, Maeve sliced the dough into twelve identical scones, somehow managing to convey skepticism with nothing more than the movements of her gnarled hands. 

Draco pushed away from the counter to fetch the baking sheets, grumbling as he went. “I ran into someone. Who is _not_ my lover. And who did _not_ hit me. That was – an entirely separate incident.”

“Who was he then?” Maeve asked, as Draco helped her lay the scones onto the trays. “Old friend?”

Draco stiffened, crushing the scone he was holding. Trust Maeve to instinctively know that his aching face was not the part of his misadventure that weighed most heavily. Wincing slightly, he attempted to re-shape the damaged scone. “Not – not exactly.”

Maeve batted his hand away from her precious dough, but when she spoke, the words were gentle. “You seem pretty rattled.”

“Yes, well,” Draco huffed, brushing flour off his hands and straightening his spine. “A black eye will do that. It has nothing to do with – with him.” His voice cracked on the last word, belying his aloof tone.

Maeve popped the scones in the oven and dusted off her hands, before taking Draco by the elbow. She barely came up to his shoulder, but Maeve was a hale old woman, and Draco meekly allowed her to lead him over to the plush sofa on the other side of the shop.

“Alright, love,” Maeve said, as they settled down on the cushions, “let me have a look at you.”

Draco knew better than to protest her ministrations, and sat patiently as her calloused fingers prodded in methodical circles across the bones of his face. He had to stifle a gasp as his mind flashed back to Potter’s earlier touch, surprisingly gentle against his injured skin. 

Thankfully, Maeve did not seem to notice Draco’s lapse. “Nothing broken,” she reported, smiling in relief and patting Draco on the shoulder. “I’ll have you right as rain in a jiffy.”

Draco had slumped against the pillows, but when Maeve pulled out her wand, he hurriedly stood.

“No, Maeve,” he said decisively. “Thank you, but I’m fine.”

“Might have known,” she responded with a sad smile.

Instead of arguing, Maeve pointed her wand at the shelf above their heads, casually transfiguring one of her many teapots into an icepack.

Draco gaped at her as she tugged him back down to the sofa and pressed the pack against his eye. She tutted at him softly when he was slow to take it from her.

“How did you –” Draco trailed off. He pulled the frozen block away from his face and poked at it in wonderment. “You shouldn’t have been able to make it cold,” he said, glancing back up at Maeve inquisitively. “Temperature is one of the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration!”

Maeve straightened her shoulders and managed to look down her nose at him. “Just because I’m one hundred and eleven years old, doesn’t mean I don’t know my way around a wand, dear. Now put that back on your eye this instant,” she ordered, “or I’ll attach it with a permanent sticking charm.” A stern glare accompanied the threat.

“You are _not_ one hundred and eleven years old,” Draco said, mind whirring as he absently returned the ice to his eye. He gnawed on his lip, trying to puzzle out what Maeve had just done.

“Unless – you anchored the spell to the insulation aspect of the teapot,” he mused. “That which keeps something hot can easily be persuaded to keep something cold, and then –” Draco gasped. “Did you – did you use the teapot’s potential – the, the… echo? Of the boiling water? To – to create the potential for _frozen_ water?”

Maeve smirked at him. “Aren’t you the clever one? No one’s ever unraveled the theory of one of my own spells that quickly.”

Draco dropped the ice, then scrambled to pick it up before Maeve could scold him again. “How – how many spells have you invented?” he asked in awe.

Maeve stood with a chuckle and a slight grimace. Pressing a hand to her lower back, she answered nonchalantly. “A fair few.” Her mouth twisted thoughtfully then, and she pinned Draco with the force of her gaze. “You ever want to do more than mix tea blends, you let me know.”

Draco felt a pang in his chest, like he’d been suddenly deprived of air. “Maeve, you know I can’t –”

“I know,” she interrupted. “Doesn’t make it right.”

The door to the shop clattered open then, admitting a group of giggling teenagers. Maeve greeted them warmly and stumped back over to the counter.

Draco sat in stunned silence for a minute longer, before tightening his grip on the ice pack and escaping to the back room.

He spent the rest of his shift brooding over a new blend. The result was a vividly green tea that tasted of treacle, and it absolutely did _not_ remind him of Harry Potter.


	4. summer cherry medley

Harry dodged left, easily deflecting the oncoming blow with a raised forearm. But he had overextended himself, and before he could correct his stance, his feet were swept out from under him with a well-timed kick. He hit the mat hard, breath whooshing out of him in one painful gust.

Warm brown eyes appeared above him, crinkled in amusement. William Vazquez swept a hand through his sweaty black locks and grinned down at Harry.

“Sloppy,” Will chided. “I’ve taught you better than that, Potter.”

Having not yet gotten his breath back, Harry was unable to retort. He made a strangled sounding noise instead. To make himself feel better about it, he pretended it was more indignant than pained. 

Will snorted, but then he reached down and helpfully hauled Harry to his feet.

“Off day,” Harry grumbled, rubbing at the elbow he had knocked against the floor.

“Go again?” Will asked, already dropping into a perfect kick stance. Waggling his eyebrows, he held out a hand and beckoned to Harry.

Harry groaned and rolled his eyes. The clichéd gesture was almost enough to goad him into another bout, but he knew it was no good. His muscles ached and his mind kept wandering.

“Nah, I’m heading out,” Harry said. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Will agreed. He clapped Harry on the shoulder and jogged off toward the weightlifting area. 

Distracted by the muscles rippling beneath Will’s burnished bronze skin, Harry had to shake himself out of a daze. He huffed out a laugh, surprised at himself. He must be feeling jealous of Will’s indefatigable energy, which was rather silly. Putting it out of mind, Harry snatched his water bottle from the ground and chugged the remnants as he headed to the locker room.

Harry hesitated in front of the showers, but decided to take a run instead of apparating. He could clean off at home. There was a discrete wizarding pub with a floo only a couple miles from the Brixton Kickboxing Club, and the cardio would make up for leaving the gym earlier than normal. Besides, Harry was still a little wary of apparition after the incident with Malfoy a week ago. Not that Harry had been attempting to apparate at the time, but what else could have squeezed him through space like that? He certainly hadn’t touched a Portkey.

Was spontaneous, accidental apparition a thing? Harry had been working up the courage to ask Hermione.

Harry tried to focus on regulating his breathing as his feet pounded against the pavement, but it really didn’t require much conscious effort. He’d been running almost daily for a year now, and his body eagerly settled into the proper rhythms. There was nothing to stop his mind from turning back to the images that had stolen his attention away from training.

Grey eyes, shockingly pretty, the blue flecks in them like the promise of rain.

Sharp cheekbones, one marred by a spreading bruise.

Silver blond hair in a stylish undercut, the buzzed side almost begging to be touched. 

This was about as far as the thoughts usually got before Harry would forcibly splinter them, uncomfortable with his renewed fixation on Malfoy. He had burned through almost forty hours of podcasts in the past week, as well as embarking on several home improvement projects. 

But now, without headphones or a hammer, Harry was at the mercy of his spiraling mind.

The sun beat down, sweat slicked his forehead, the vibrant colors of street vendors’ wares blurred past, and Harry Potter mulled over Draco Malfoy.

He covered the two miles in a little over twelve minutes. 

It was his fastest time yet.

***

Harry wandered around his cottage, munching on a cheese toastie.

Restless, he skimmed a finger over the new titles on his bookshelf (he’d been impulsively buying Muggle detective novels since the end of the war), wondering if it would help to settle into a new mystery.

Harry shuddered as his hair, still wet from his post-run shower, dripped down the back of his t-shirt. Abandoning the books, he padded into the kitchen, the cool tiles a shock against his bare feet. When he threw open the curtains to let in the afternoon sun, the rays caught his new (mostly empty) spice rack, making the polished wood gleam. Harry had built it himself, carefully weaving spells into basic Muggle carpentry. He’d had to read two books to figure out the best way to do it, and the research had keep his mind off Malfoy for close to three hours.

Harry chuckled softly, a little sheepish, but mostly relieved. It didn’t seem to matter so much, now that he’d finally allowed himself to think things through. 

He’d seen Malfoy around, of course, since the war. They’d run into each other every now and then, most often at the grocery, but also at the occasional bookstore or pub. They’d exchange a polite greeting and then be on their way. But every time Harry had… wondered. How Malfoy was, what his life was like, that sort of thing. They’d never really spoken, not until the apparition accident. Not since the trials anyway, and even then, the conversation had been brief and stilted.

Harry just wanted to know what Malfoy was up to. He was _curious,_ and there was no harm in that. Harry was allowed to be curious about the man who’d made his life hell, and then lied to save him. He was allowed to wonder about the man who protected him at the risk of torture.

And besides, Harry didn’t have much else to do at the moment. Things were a bit boring, and – and lonely, with Ginny gone. 

Not that his life has changed all that much. Harry was slowly coming around to the idea that Hermione may have had a point, and that maybe he wasn’t quite as heartbroken as he should have been. _Maybe._

But the cottage was still uncomfortably quiet without Ginny, and he missed having her around. 

No time like the present then, to befriend an old enemy. Right?

Harry frowned. Absently, he began to slide his container of cumin back and forth along the excess space on the spice rack. Was that what he wanted? To be friends with Draco Malfoy?

Should he go out and buy more spices to fill the rack?

Where would he even _find_ Draco Malfoy? He didn’t live at the Manor anymore, Harry knew.

But what would he do with all those spices? He supposed he could learn to cook some new meals. That might also help with the boredom.

And would Malfoy want to be friends with Harry?

Or, he could just dump the spices onto different batches of popcorn – a popcorn buffet of sorts. He could host a Muggle movie night!

And invite Malfoy?

Harry fingers slipped, knocking the cumin off the rack. The glass container fell to the floor and shattered. Cursing, Harry jumped back, narrowly avoiding cutting his feet.

And at that moment, as he stumbled into his kitchen table, Harry felt a familiar emptiness hollow out his chest. He gasped and fell forward, but his body was whisked away by buffeting winds and blinding pressure before his knees could even hit the floor.

***

The sensation of falling wasn’t as strong this time, though Harry still staggered as he landed. He tripped over his own feet and promptly toppled onto a purple sofa.

Pushing himself upright, he adjusted his glasses and peered hesitantly about the room. 

It was a relatively small space, painted a vibrant turquoise. White shelves were scattered erratically over the walls, cluttered with decorative teapots and vases. Each was filled to bursting with bright pink and orange flowers. Clustered around the room were numerous small wooden tables and cozy looking armchairs. It should have been overwhelming, but there was something about the place that put Harry immediately at ease.

At least until a scolding voice rang out and startled him to his feet. “It’s more polite to use the door when you’re coming into someone else’s shop, you know.”

An old woman stood behind a marbled counter, arranging plump-looking pastries on a large white platter. She wore a buttery yellow apron over her pink dress, and her grey hair was tied in a neat bun atop her head. When Harry did not reply, she planted her hands on her hips and stared at him reproachfully. 

“I’m so sorry,” he cried, raising his hands in a placating gesture. He looked anxiously around him, until his eyes caught on the little enchanted lanterns floating up by the ceiling. Relieved that he hadn’t just appeared out of nowhere in a Muggle shop, Harry attempted to explain. “I – I’ve been having some apparition trouble?”

“You don’t sound very sure about that.” The woman raised her eyebrows skeptically. “And you’re not wearing any shoes.”

Harry felt a hysterical laugh begin to build in his chest. He hugged his arms into himself, trying to trap it inside. “No, I – er, actually, I – I’m pretty confused.”

The woman tutted at him, but her face softened. “Well, that’s nothing a steaming cup of tea can’t fix. Come over here and pick something out, dear,” she offered. “What’s your name? I’m Maeve.”

The corner of Harry’s mouth quirked up at the unexpected joy of not being recognized, but before he could introduce himself, the door behind the shop counter slammed open.

“Maeve!” came a harassed-sounding shout. “Do you have any more bandages? I cut myself again.”

And there he was. Harry supposed he should have known.

Draco Malfoy. Blond hair falling into his eyes, a scowl of pain, and a rapidly reddening cloth wrapped around the fingers of one hand.

Harry breathed in shakily. Malfoy looked up at the sound, and froze.

Harry was reminded of that moment on the street, when he had reached out and touched the skin of Malfoy’s cheek. The bruising was still there, green and yellow and slightly puffy, obscuring the sharp angles of his face. And Malfoy was hurt again now, blood trickling slowly down his wrist, staining his crisp white shirtsleeve.

Throat dry, Harry swallowed uncomfortably. The need to help Malfoy was nearly overwhelming, but Malfoy looked uneasy, almost… frightened, and the last thing Harry wanted was to scare him away.

The shop owner – Maeve – had been glancing back and forth between them, presumably waiting for some type of explanation, but suddenly she nodded to herself and grinned.

“Draco,” she asked, eyes sparkling, “is this your young man?”

“What?” Draco yelped. He tore his gaze from Harry and glared at Maeve. “No! I told you I don’t have a – no.” Draco backed up a step and promptly flushed when he bumped into the doorframe. “This is – Harry.”

Harry’s chest tightened. He’d never heard Malfoy say his name before.

“I see.” Maeve crossed her arms smugly and leaned across the counter, making an obvious show of studying Harry. “And Harry is not exactly an old friend who did not hit you?” The words sounded more like a declaration of victory than a question.

Thoroughly confused, Harry tugged at the collar of his t-shirt.

Malfoy blinked slowly at Maeve. “I – I –” He snapped his mouth shut and shook his head, before straightening to his full height. “If you would excuse me,” he squeaked, the high-pitched sound rather spoiling the effect of the dignified posture. With one last stolen glance at Harry, Malfoy clutched the bloodstained rag more tightly to his hand and fled.

With a heavy sigh, Maeve bent down to rummage in one of the cabinets behind her.

“You can go on back, dear,” she said, rising and holding out a handful of bandages. “Take him these, would you?”

Harry scrambled toward the counter, then hesitated. “Oh, but – I can heal him.” When Maeve started to shake her head, he added, “I’m good with cuts.”

Maeve pressed the bandages into his hands. “I’m sure you are,” she said. She smiled encouragingly at Harry, but there was something melancholy in her eyes. “It would be better if you didn’t offer. It’ll ease my mind if you’ll help him with the bandages, though. He won’t get them tight enough on his own.”

“But why –”

Maeve patted Harry’s shoulder and gave him a gentle push toward the door to the back room. “Not my place to say. But don’t worry, love, he’ll be alright.”

Harry passed obligingly through the door and found himself in a meticulously organized storeroom. High shelves ran along the walls, each stacked with labeled wooden crates. Light spilled through another open door in the back corner, and Harry could hear the sound of a running faucet. He made his way toward it, grimacing slightly as his bare feet scraped against the cement floor.

When he reached the doorway, Harry rapped his knuckles awkwardly against the frame. Malfoy was standing on the far side of the room, hunched over a sink. He stiffened at the sound, but did not look up.

This room was much more subdued than the main shop, but it had the same inviting air. It was painted a pale blue with grey trim, and twinkling white fairy lights were strung along the eaves. The floor was the same rough concrete as the storeroom, but it was covered with a warm burgundy rug. A small desk and bookshelf were situated by a window, the desk strewn with open books, quills, and piles of parchment. The long counter that contained the sink wrapped around two entire walls of the room, with cabinets and drawers arranged below. The paraphernalia atop it looked like barely controlled chaos – knives and ladles, pouches of various sizes, little metal tins, herbs and flower petals. 

By the window, Harry caught sight of a few pages taped to the wall. He wasn’t certain, but they looked as though they had been ripped from travel magazines – pictures of mountains, wildflowers, stone temples. Curiosity nipped at Harry’s fingers. He almost shivered, drawn to Malfoy as inexorably as he always was to the tantalizing cold of the season’s first snow. 

“Er – Draco?” Harry attempted.

Malfoy shut the tap and wrapped his hand in a clean cloth before turning to face Harry. “That sounds – odd, coming from you,” he observed, wrinkling his nose slightly.

Harry shrugged good-naturedly. “You called me Harry just now.”

“To introduce you to Maeve!” Malfoy blurted, cheeks pinking. “That’s – different.”

“Right – ok, _Draco,”_ Harry said, smiling a tad mischievously.

Malfoy scowled at him, but there was something fretful beneath the bluster. His eyes widened slightly as Harry approached him, and he darted a nervous glance around the room before resolutely turning his attention to his wounded hand.

If Malfoy hadn’t been bleeding, Harry might have found some excuse to leave. He still wasn’t sure exactly what he had walked in on here, but this shop was clearly more than a job to Malfoy. Seeing him now, standing protectively at the center of this obviously beloved workspace, Harry could tell that this was Malfoy at his most vulnerable. He felt as though he had elbowed his way straight into the chambers of Malfoy’s still-beating heart, and he was wary of leaving a bruise.

Draco Malfoy had built a life for himself, and he was afraid his former nemesis was here to spit on it. Harry didn’t know how to convince Malfoy – _Draco_ – that he wouldn’t.

The silence grew heavy. Finally, Harry cleared his throat. “Can I – ?” he asked, gesturing to the bandages he was holding. 

“Oh.” Draco stopped dabbing at the cut. “Yes – I suppose.” 

Eyes wary, he placed his injured fingers lightly atop Harry’s outstretched palm. For a moment, it was almost as if they were holding hands. 

Heat flashed through Harry at the touch, shocking in its intensity, but easily ignored. The long gashes running across Draco’s index finger and thumb were already beginning to bleed again, now that he’d removed the cloth.

Harry fumbled a bit with the bandages before managing to get the gauze positioned correctly. He half expected a sneer or a haughty lecture about proper bandaging technique, but Draco was still and silent as he waited for Harry to wrap the wound.

When he finished, Harry didn’t pull back right away, his hand still cupping Draco’s as the other man gingerly flexed his fingers. Harry felt slightly dizzy, the air in the room pressing close.

“Thank you,” Draco whispered, staring down at their hands. Then his mouth tightened and he wrenched himself away.

Harry followed as Draco took a seat at one of the stools by the counter. He wasn’t sure if he’d be welcome to join Draco, so he settled for hovering over his shoulder.

“Does it hurt?” Harry asked, wondering if he should disobey Maeve and offer Draco a pain-numbing charm.

Draco startled, as if he’d already forgotten Harry’s presence. His good hand had been sifting through the herbs and flowers. “No,” Draco said with a wry twist of his mouth. “No – just a bit inconvenient, really.” He looked glumly between his hand and the mess on the table and sighed.

“Can I –” Harry fidgeted with the remaining bandages. “Can I help?”

Draco frowned. He tilted his head, meeting Harry’s eyes. Harry did his best to hold Draco’s gaze. One of Draco’s eyebrows quirked up suspiciously, but after a long moment of indecision, he finally nodded. “Alright.”

Wasting no time, Harry plopped down onto the stool beside Draco. “I liked Maeve. And this shop is brilliant! How many different teas do you have? It seemed like dozens!” He swiveled on the stool and beamed at Draco. “Do you make them all? Right here? I’ve never thought about how tea is made before. What do we need to do?” 

Draco blinked, seemingly taken aback by Harry’s enthusiastic chatter.

The nape of Harry’s neck heated and he scrubbed a hand nervously through his hair.

Draco tsked at him and prodded him toward the sink. “Go wash your hands, Potter.”

“We have ten standard teas permanently on the menu,” Draco continued, once Harry was obediently scrubbing, “but I create several specialty blends for each season. I was putting together a summer cherry medley when I cut myself. If you’d be willing to slice the rest of the cherries, I can manage everything else. There’s a fresh bundle of cherries on that shelf –” Draco pointed above their heads as Harry returned to the counter – “and a clean knife in the drawer next to you.”

“Do you need me to mop up any blood or anything?” Harry asked.

“No,” Draco said. He turned his head and smiled shyly, finally losing some of the tension that he’d held since Harry had entered the room. “Thank you, but I was working at the other counter, and I took care of the mess before coming out into the shop.”

“What?” Harry exclaimed. “But you were hurt!”

Draco rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling. “Nonsense, Potter. It was hardly a scratch. The tea is more important.”

Harry shook his head, laughing a little. “Whatever you say, Draco.”

They worked quietly for a time, Harry diligently slicing cherries while Draco sorted through flower petals. He selected them carefully, plucking only the best from their stems and mixing them into a metal container that already held spices and herbs.

Draco’s posture relaxed more and more as the afternoon wore on, and soon enough, he was humming contentedly to himself. Again, Harry had the sense that he was seeing something precious, the unguarded warrens of Draco’s heart. 

“I feel a little silly now,” Harry said, “about offering to buy you a cup of tea last week.”

“Yes, well –” Draco breathed out, fingers stuttering over the flowers, “you couldn’t have known.”

Harry chuckled.

“Potter?” Draco dropped his hands to his lap, the unbandaged one tightening on his knee.

Harry’s heart sank. Draco had gone rigid again, coiled as tight as a threatened snake, and Harry didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Suddenly, he again felt like an intruder.

“How did you find me?” Draco’s words were forced, spoken through a clenched jaw.

Harry set down the knife. “I don’t know.”

“I’m serious, Potter,” Draco demanded. “Why are you here? What do you want?”

“Malfoy, I swear. It was just like last time. I felt something –” Harry grasped at his chest – “here. And then everything went dark and squished. Like apparition.”

Draco frowned deeply. “Well, that’s – worrisome.”

“Yeah.”

Draco’s gaze turned thoughtful. “What you were doing just before it happened?” he asked.

“Er –” Harry gulped, unwilling to admit that what he’d been doing was contemplating a friendship with Draco. “I was fiddling with some spices, in my kitchen.”

“So was I,” Draco murmured, tapping a finger against the counter. “And the first time?”

“On my way to get a sandwich.”

“That's right! And so was I,” Draco cried, eyes widening and mouth hanging open. He flushed and hurriedly closed his mouth. “Well – fish and chips, really,” he added after a pause, “but even so, that hardly seems coincidental.”

“Right,” Harry agreed.

Draco’s eyes grew distant, so Harry kept quiet as they finished the tea. Draco delicately stirred the sliced cherries into the metal container. Lifting the mixture to his face, he inhaled deeply before adding a tiny pinch of a spice Harry didn’t recognize. Apparently satisfied, Draco popped the container into a larger metal box that Harry assumed must somehow dry the tea.

Without being asked, Harry grabbed a towel and spray bottle from the sink and cleaned the cherry juice from the counter. It would have been quicker with magic, but Draco had not used magic at any point while making the tea (not to mention his odd avoidance of healing spells) and Harry did not want to disrespect his process.

Draco watched Harry work, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Would you –” Draco coughed awkwardly. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

***

“This is incredible,” Harry moaned, basking in the aroma of the best tea he’d ever had. It was an oddly bright green color, but it tasted strong and rich, with just the right amount of syrupy sweetness. He took another large swallow, sighing happily as the flavor burst across his tongue. “What’s it called?”

Draco sipped from his own cup before answering. “Lightning Storm Heartache,” he mumbled, averting his eyes.

“Really?” Harry peered curiously into his mug. “Why?”

“N-no reason,” Draco said, self-consciously twirling the silver ring on his finger.

Harry raised his eyebrows and leaned closer across the table. “Oh really?”

“Yes, really,” Draco huffed. “It’s not some tea conspiracy, Potter. We have one called ‘Wool Hat in the Rain.’ Maeve thinks it’s whimsical.”

“It _is_ whimsical,” Maeve cut in, sweeping over to set a large tray of pastries on their table. “And whimsy sells tea.”

“You always know best,” Draco said, smiling up at her.

“And you,” she replied, “always name the teas.” With a wink at Harry, she bustled away to attend to her other customers.

Blushing furiously, Draco began to stammer out a protest, but Maeve was already gone.

Harry threw back his head and laughed. 

This was the best afternoon he’d had in a long time.


	5. the foot soldier and the savior

With a resigned sigh, Draco closed the leather-bound book he had been writing in and tossed it onto his bed. It had been at least an hour since the intricate formula he was carefully teasing apart had spiraled out of his control, and he knew he’d make no more headway tonight.

Blinking the heaviness from his eyes, Draco stretched his arms above his head and settled himself more comfortably into the little alcove beneath his bedroom window. It was far from a proper window-seat, but he had outfitted the recessed space with a small bench covered in cushions, and the resulting reading nook suited Draco just fine. It was his favorite spot in the cheap London flat he rented, and he often lingered in it well past the time a more reasonable man would retire.

Outside, the pavement was wet, glistening slickly in the glow of the streetlamps. Though striking, the sight was a poor substitute for the starlight Draco had grown up gazing at from the windows of the Manor. In London, the city lights dulled the heavens, chasing the magic from the blue-black sky.

Most nights, this did not bother Draco. Ignoring the view, he would bask in the twilight breeze and unleash the wanderings of his heart into books, the words twinkling before his eyes as brightly as the stars ever had. Most nights, he was content in his solitude, and the ugliness of the city streets did not faze him.

Tonight though, it grated on him. Tonight, something was off.

Draco closed his eyes and imagined constellations spinning above him, their ethereal light infecting him with a longing he could not shake.

Draco let his mind flit through excuses like a child playing hopscotch, springing to the next square and then the next with barely a moment to touch down and steady his stride between.

(it was late– 

he was tired– 

frustrated with the lack of progress on his new tea– 

his day off tomorrow would be boring and tedious– 

Maeve hadn’t made his favorite biscuits in three days– 

the late-summer weather was far too hot)

But just as games of hopscotch can only last so long, so too does lying have its limit. The chalked squares come to an end. The excuses wither under scrutiny. 

Draco had reached his limit. He could lie to himself no longer.

The truth was, Draco knew _exactly_ what was wrong with him tonight – the same thing that had been wrong with him every night for two weeks now. Ever since his former rival had grinned at him across a table while devouring Draco’s tea.

Harry Potter had blundered his way into the teashop, and Draco had remembered what it meant to dream.

Draco opened his eyes, allowing the few gathered tears to escape. He wiped them away hastily and pulled a battered, dog-eared novel from beneath the cushions. Cracking it open to a random page, he began to read.

***

Draco jerked awake with a violent shiver. The rain was coming down in droves outside, and a wind had whipped up, blowing the water in through the window. Slamming it shut, Draco let out a frustrated groan and swiped his damp hair off his forehead. As he clambered out of the tangle of cushions and blankets, his novel dropped to the floor with a loud thump. Draco gasped in fright.

Pulse still racing, Draco shook his head wryly at himself and headed to his wardrobe to peel off his wet shirt. His skin was uncomfortably clammy, but somehow he didn’t think that was what had woken him. Sleep clung to his limbs, plaguing each step with a heaviness that refused to relent, even as Draco came more fully awake. He felt off-balance and uneasy, as if the ground were a wild animal that might buck beneath his feet at any moment.

Moving slowly, Draco toweled himself off and pulled on a dry t-shirt and pajama bottoms before climbing into bed. His unease lingered, the precarious, dizzy feeling crawling beneath his skin. Draco curled into a ball, and abruptly found himself struggling to breathe. His chest seemed to expand outward, a yawning cavern, airless and vast. The sheets scraped roughly against his flailing limbs and his vision dimmed, black encroaching on the edges of the room.

And then the darkness swallowed him.

When Draco shuddered back into existence, the sensation was much less violent than when he had left it. One moment he was drowning in nothingness and the next he was sitting calmly on the foot of the bed. His ears rang with the aftershocks of a loud crack, but otherwise, there was no physical discomfort. Draco took a tentative breath, and promptly choked on it.

The blanket beneath him was the wrong color, a luscious green instead of his more subdued greys. Draco swallowed hard and looked up, sickeningly certain of what he would see.

The moon shone through two large windows above the bed, bathing the room in silvery light. And there he was. Harry Potter sat in the center of the bed, eyes wide and glistening with tears. 

His gaze bored into Draco, but the green irises looked strangely vulnerable, shedding the strength of emeralds for the fragility of hand-blown glass. Potter was hunched into himself, knees drawn up to his chest and hands balled into fists. Shaking, Potter gasped in a breath.

“Apparition accident?” he asked, managing a weak smile.

Draco nodded, too shocked to speak.

Fresh tears leaked from Potter’s eyes as a sob escaped him.

“I’m sorry, I –” Draco reached out, but hesitated before touching Potter. He let his hand fall awkwardly to the bed between them.

“Not your fault,” Potter mumbled. Still trembling, he drew the blankets up to his chin, hiding his bare chest. “Draco –”

Draco’s heart pounded. He shifted minutely closer to Potter.

“Will you go away?” Potter whispered, before burying his head in his arms. “Please?”

“Of course,” Draco said, voice a hoarse rasp. He flexed his fingers, fighting off the jolt of pain that had flashed through him at the request.

Potter’s heavy sobs trailed after Draco as he slipped quietly from the room. He hesitated again on the landing, finding it nearly impossible to turn his back on Potter’s pain. But Potter’s nightmares were likely products of the war, born from a darkness that Draco had helped create.

No, a foot soldier of the Dark Lord had no place in the Savior’s bedroom.

Draco dug his fingernails into his palms and forced himself down the stairs.

***

The sky was pinking with the beginnings of dawn when Draco finally accepted that he would not be leaving Potter’s cottage tonight. Sitting stiffly on the leather sofa, Draco resisted the urge to poke around the clutter that littered the room. The Malfoys had raised Draco to turn his nose up at places like this, as if any signs of actual habitation were the height of impropriety, but he found Potter’s space rather alluring.

There was a surprisingly full bookshelf, photographs crowding the mantle above the fireplace, and a pile of colorful blankets on a worn-looking armchair. In the middle of the carpet was something vaguely shelf-shaped, clearly only partially assembled. It was surrounded by wooden slats and little piles of nails. 

More curious was the assortment of mugs scattered across every available surface, all of unique design. Draco was particularly captivated by one at the center of the low table in front of him. It was painted in shifting blue tones, nearly black at the base and lightening to a deep cerulean at the rim, like an inverse of the sky as dusk gathers on the horizon. When Draco turned his head, the mug seemed to shimmer with the promise of stars.

 _The Fae Dazzle the Glen,_ Draco thought. The tea he would pair with this particular mug. He could almost taste the crisp tartness and heady pine tones, richer somehow, when sipped from a cup of such artistry and blue depths.

He tried to make a game of it, matching each mug with one of his own teas, but with every one he named, his disquiet grew. Dangerous this, knitting himself so casually into the chaotic fabric of Potter’s life. Bad enough that he now knew where the man slept, had now glimpsed the flotsam and jetsam of his pastimes, had spent a night in the place he called home. 

Bad enough that Potter had stood in Draco’s workshop, had breathed life and laughter into it without one second of disdain. 

No, Draco could not allow his heart to meander any further down this path that had no good end. He closed his eyes.

This, whatever _this_ was, had to stop. 

When Potter hadn’t reappeared at the teashop, Draco had assumed the two apparition incidents had been a fluke. Some odd magical flare-up, perhaps, like the physical manifestation of a headache or a sneeze. Potter hadn’t looked well, after all, and two weeks was certainly long enough for the problem to have passed.

Draco may have harbored a slight – _hope_ that Potter would return of his own volition, but he hadn’t, and Draco had done his best to put it out of mind.

But now, Draco himself had been dumped unceremoniously at Potter’s feet, and he could no longer doubt that something strange was afoot. He and Potter were tangled up in a magic that would take time and patience to unravel, and Draco was not certain he had the stomach for it. 

Even worse, there appeared to be parameters to the situation that he did not understand. When he had left Potter’s bedroom earlier, he had gone straight to the front door. He had no inkling where in London he might be, and had not relished walking blindly through the rainy night, but with the alternative being lurking unwanted in Potter’s house, he hadn’t supposed he’d had much choice.

The door opened easily enough, but as he stepped across the threshold, he had bounced back, obstructed by some kind of invisible barrier. Confused, then slightly panicked, Draco had hammered at it with increasingly frantic fists, but it had not budged. 

Breathing slowly through his nose to calm himself, Draco had embarked on a silent search of the cottage, testing every door and window with the same result. Finally, he had admitted defeat and ensconced himself on the sofa. 

Eyes still firmly shut, Draco raked his brain over the coals of the situation, disregarding the fiery pain. He needed to approach this problem objectively, with a cool head and a hardened heart.

The simplest explanation would be that Potter’s cottage had exceptionally effective wards, which was entirely plausible. Potter still appeared in the papers often enough to indicate that his fame had not eroded with the end of the war, and it would be prudent of him to take precautions with his home. Still, as much as Draco would have liked to believe this idea, wards kept intruders _out_ of buildings; he had never heard of wards that trapped people inside of them. Besides, if whatever had caused his apparition had circumvented the wards to get Draco in, he should not have had any trouble getting out.

Less plausible, but still preferable to any alternatives, was the possibility that Draco was at fault. That he was so tired he hallucinated the barriers, or that he was so worried about Potter he refused to leave, or… or that some small part of him wanted so badly to stay here that the magic at the core of him, desperate and unused, threw up a shield to prevent his departure.

Draco exhaled shakily and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.

No, that was absurd, the very idea histrionic. There was no reason to suspect his magic of turning on him. It never had before, and he had outgrown accidental, emotional magic years ago.

Draco curled deeper into the sofa, hugging his knees to his chest.

Potter did not have illogically strong wards.

And Draco was not self-sabotaging his escape.

Therefore, the magic drawing Draco and Potter together had rules that did not allow them to leave each other until some unknown requirement had been met. And that was the most frightening possibility of all.

The sky grew lighter, the morning sun spilling in through Potter’s overlarge windows. Draco spun the silver ring on his finger, restless circles to match his racing heart.

***

“Er… Draco?”

“Hmm?” Draco breathed, burrowing a little deeper into the cushions. Slowly, he blinked awake, only to find his face smooshed into an unfamiliarly plump sofa. At that, the gravelly voice that had just called his name finally penetrated, and Draco jolted upright.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and took a steadying breath, grounding himself before the unavoidable encounter. With hands jammed beneath his thighs, a precaution against trembling fingers, Draco turned to face Harry Potter.

He stood in the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. His bemused expression did little to hide the tired lines of his face or the deep circles under his eyes. His glasses were perched on his nose, but he was still shirtless, revealing muscular shoulders and toned abs. His sweatpants hung low enough that sharp hip bones peeked out, two tantalizing lines drawing the eye downward. Draco’s throat, already dry, tightened further and he had to quickly look away. The silence buzzed in his ears as Potter stared at him, clearly at a loss for what to say.

“Morning, Potter,” Draco finally mumbled, voice rueful. He was unsure how one went about apologizing to a distractingly fit former enemy for sleeping on their sofa after blundering about their house in the middle of the night while they cried upstairs. Pureblood etiquette had nothing to offer for a situation as convoluted as this. _Bloody useless,_ Draco thought. _How typical._

Potter shifted from foot to foot, until sudden understanding lit up his face. For a moment, he was more brilliant than the sun, but then he winced, looking chagrined. 

“Merlin, Malfoy,” he cried, “I’m so sorry! I should have known you wouldn’t want to apparate after what happened.”

“No, I –” Draco responded automatically, then snapped his mouth shut.

Potter seemed to take it for embarrassment and hurried to reassure him. “I haven’t, not in weeks. I never really liked apparition much anyway, but now –” he trailed off with a shrug. “You should have woken me. I could have gotten you a pillow, at least.”

“No,” Draco said again, frowning. “I was fine. No need to – to trouble yourself.”

“I was just about to put the kettle on,” Potter said, mouth edging into a beautiful, crooked curve. “It’s nothing like what you could make, but do you want a cup?”

Draco hesitated, but in the end he wasn’t strong enough to say no to that smile. 

He had expected Potter to be angry, had expected him to lash out at Draco for intruding on his grief. But Potter was surprisingly _comfortable,_ at ease with Draco despite the vulnerability he had shown in the night. It was – baffling. Unsettling. Terrifying. And also, _nice._

When Potter returned with two steaming mugs of tea, he collapsed on the sofa and offered one of the mugs to Draco, somehow managing not to spill a single drop. As exasperated as he was impressed, Draco huffed a little when he took the plain white cup. Potter did not seem to notice; he had already tipped his head back to rest it against the sofa, eyes closed and exhaustion evident in his every beleaguered edge.

Draco wondered if Potter might like to talk about it, purge some of the horror by naming it in the light of day. But Draco knew he had no right to pry, and so he settled for a safer subject.

“Are these pretty mugs not for drinking then?” he teased, tone warm with amusement despite his genuine curiosity. “Stripped of their true purpose, valued only for their looks, relegated to little better than colorful clutter?” Potter cracked an eye open and raised an eyebrow. Encouraged, Draco continued. “What have they done to deserve this cruel fate, Potter? I may weep at their plight!”

Potter barked out a laugh and Draco hid a smile by sipping from his cup. The tea carved a soothing path into the depths of him, seeming to dissolve the last of his restraint. The fears of last night were still with him, but right now, in this cozy, ridiculous room, with Potter lounging beside him, it was hard to give those apprehensions much credence. Draco was sure he would regret this later, but that was a problem for future Draco, and perhaps the inevitable loss would be worth this moment of unexpected joy.

“It sounds silly,” Potter said, some color finally coming back into his wan cheeks, “but I use these white ones in the morning, for a blank slate.”

Draco cocked his head inquisitively.

“It’s like a reminder,” Potter explained quietly, “that my days are mine. I get to choose what each day looks like. I get to decide. I never had that – before.”

Understanding unfurled in Draco’s chest, cracking him open and setting old wounds to ache. Draco had rituals of his own. Draco needed those types of reminders too. His fingers twitched on the mug, wanting to reach for Harry.

Potter took a long sip of his tea, closing his eyes as he swallowed. Then he grinned, only a tad self-consciously, and gestured at the table. “These are for afternoon tea, or for a drink before bed. I use whichever suits the mood of the day.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Like I said, silly.”

“I think it’s lovely,” Draco said, and he meant it.

Potter blushed, but he looked pleased.

They finished their tea in silence. Draco trailed after Potter as he carried the mugs to the kitchen for washing up.

“I suppose I should be going,” Draco offered reluctantly.

Potter whirled to face him, and when he leaned casually against the counter, hands tight on its edge, something like disappointment flashed across his eyes.

“Yeah, ’course,” Potter said. “Don’t let me – er, keep you.”

Draco bit his lip, suddenly feeling exposed in his thin t-shirt. Something about this moment of leave-taking shattered the peace they had found. The past seemed to reassert itself, dark tendrils writhing in the air between them. Draco shifted his arm subtly, hiding the faded Dark Mark from view. 

With an uncomfortable nod at Potter, Draco approached the back door. He opened it and extended a cautious hand across the threshold, relieved when nothing barred his way.

“Bye, Draco,” Potter whispered, voice so small and lost that Draco couldn’t stand it.

He spun to face Potter, propping himself against the door frame. 

“On second thought –”

“Yeah?” Potter cut in eagerly.

“It may be wise for us to discuss our mutual apparition problem,” Draco said seriously. “Compare notes, so to speak.”

Harry grinned. Birdsong and the smell of lilacs warmed Draco’s back, creeping in through the open door. 

“Right,” Harry said. “Yeah, that would be – yeah, let’s do that.”

Draco looked him up and down, then seized upon a rare burst of courage. “Walk me home, Potter? You look dreadful, and I have just the thing.”

“Yeah?”

Draco nodded. “I’ve been experimenting with Muggle ingredients to develop nutrient-dense potions.”

“What?” Potter asked, brow wrinkling. “That doesn’t sound like a real thing.”

“Nonsense, Potter,” Draco said with a smirk. “Now are you coming or not?”


	6. breakfast, probably poisoned

Harry rested against the hard seat back, allowing the swaying motion of the train to lull him to just the edge of sleep. Not quite dozing, he hooked his ankle around the metal pole next to him and tried not to fall sideways into Draco. 

In the first rush of the train’s departure, Harry had accidentally jostled Draco’s arm, and the other man had immediately tensed. He hadn’t pulled away though, and their shoulders remained pressed together. Harry had felt it, three Tube stops later, when Draco’s muscles finally unclenched. A pool of warmth gathered at the spot where they touched, spilling tiny shocks of heat down through Harry’s chest. The feeling was so pleasant that he was now wary of doing anything that might force Draco away.

It was mid-morning on a Tuesday, late enough that they had missed the traffic of harried businesspeople off to work, and the train was nearly empty. Why Harry had sat directly next to Draco, instead of opposite him, was something he was choosing not to think about. Instead, he slipped gently into the memory of the quiet upturn of Draco’s lips as he had admired Harry’s back garden. 

Harry had been genuinely shocked earlier by the casual invitation to Draco’s flat. Draco had been so protective of the teashop, so obviously fearful of Harry’s presence in his humble work space, that Harry would have expected him to be even more guarded about where he lived. 

But there he’d stood, self-possessed and smirking in Harry’s kitchen, exuding an almost haughty confidence as he asked Harry to walk him home. It had been almost ridiculous, the arrogant manner clashing sharply with his threadbare pajama bottoms and the pale white of his bare feet splayed against the wooded floor. Still though, Harry had welcomed the echo of the boy Draco had once been. Harry liked the un-gelled hair and the new softness in his eyes, but a Draco Malfoy without a bite was just plain wrong.

After summoning himself a t-shirt from his bedroom, Harry had scrounged up his cleanest pair of trainers to lend to Draco for the walk to his flat. Surprisingly, Draco had slipped them on without complaint and followed Harry wordlessly out the door.

Harry had reached the gate to the road before he realized Draco was no longer behind him. Turning back, he found Draco spinning in a slow circle, gaze locked on the greenery around him. His hair gleamed in the sunlight and an unconscious smile lit up his face.

As Harry watched, Draco wandered over to a patch of wildflowers and knelt beside them. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes in reverence as his fingers brushed against the petals. 

Harry’s breath caught. He wondered if anyone had ever given Draco Malfoy flowers.

Draco had looked up at Harry then and flushed. He stood hurriedly and strode over to the gate, awkwardly brushing dirt from his knees as he went.

“Your garden is overgrown, Potter,” he said brusquely, brushing past Harry and into the road.

Harry grinned as he latched the gate. “I know.”

“It’s beautiful,” Draco whispered, eyes on the ground.

The train screeched to a halt, shattering Harry’s mental image of Draco in the garden. He sighed and without realizing what he was doing, let his head fall against Draco’s shoulder. 

Draco stood and Harry nearly toppled into the empty seat. He jerked upright, managing to stifle a gasp. He felt the back of his neck heat at the implied rejection.

But when Harry looked up, there was no sign of reproach or discomfort on Draco’s face. 

With a slightly puzzled expression, he said, “we’re here.”

“Right,” Harry mumbled as he got to his feet. “Sorry, I – I’m just tired.”

Draco reached out and lightly touched the back of Harry’s wrist, before seeming to think better of it and dropping his hand. There was something in his eyes that Harry could not read.

“I know.” Draco smiled sadly. “Come on, Potter.”

They made it off the train just as the doors hissed closed.

***

Harry followed Draco up a rickety staircase that led to a small flat above a curry shop. The carpet was worn and the walls of the hallway were painted a dull beige. Draco stopped in front of a scuffed wooden door. After a moment of staring at the doorknob, he ran a hand through his hair and huffed in frustration.

“I don’t have my key,” he said wryly. “I was in bed – before.”

“Oh,” Harry said, “right, I should have realized.” He chuckled as he pulled out his wand.

Draco’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What’s so funny, Potter?”

“It reminded me of Maeve,” Harry admitted. “When I came into the shop she scolded me something fierce. Unimpressed that I popped in with no shoes on.”

Laughing, Draco shook his head. “And I bet she offered you free tea not thirty seconds later.”

Harry grinned and nodded. “I think she felt bad for me. I was so confused.” He pointed his wand toward the door. _“Alohomora.”_

Draco led Harry inside. “Make yourself comfortable. I just need to change, and then I’ll start your potion.”

Draco toed off the borrowed trainers and disappeared through the flat’s only other door, which must lead to his bedroom. The rest of the space was one open room, with a tiny kitchen in a tiled spot to Harry’s left. Draco had created a hall-like space near the door by sectioning off the living area with a flowered Japanese screen. Admiring the intricate cherry blossom pattern, Harry removed his own shoes and wandered around the screen to explore. There was a small grey sofa with its back to the screen, seemingly to allow more room for the tall bookshelves that lined every wall. They were only about half full, with books and various knickknacks. Intrigued, Harry made his way toward a cluster of framed photographs in the middle of the corner shelf. 

There was one of Maeve, grinning impishly in a silly party hat and pointing at an iced cake. _One hundred eleven_ was written out in pink letters, but it looked like someone had run a finger through it, blurring the impressively high number. Next was a smaller picture of Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini sitting out by the Hogwarts lake. Blaise was smiling at the camera, but Pansy was stretched out on her back, eyes closed and expression more content than Harry had ever seen her. Her longs legs were bare and her fingers were tangled in the grass. Something about the pose made Harry uncomfortable, a strange, prickly feeling that he did not want to examine too closely, so he quickly turned his attention to the last frame.

In it, a very young Draco crouched in the grass, holding what must have been his mother’s wand. His blond hair was a mess of curls, cascading around his chubby toddler face, and his eyes were alight with laughter. Narcissa sat beside him, one hand supporting his back. She was smiling down at her son with such warmth that Harry’s chest ached. He would have given anything for just one picture like that of his own mother. 

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Harry ran a finger over Draco’s tiny form, captivated by the image. This was a Draco untainted by darkness, a child unspoiled by the war. Harry found himself hoping that some piece of this unguarded Draco still existed, that Draco could find his way back to this kind of unfettered joy. Harry realized then, in a sudden, overwhelming rush, that somewhere along the way, he had given up on finding that kind of joy for himself.

He glanced around the room at the worn books and fiery colored throw rug by the sofa. Maybe it was time to start looking again, even if the cheaply furnished sitting room of a former enemy was an odd place to start. 

A clattering sound drew Harry toward the kitchen, where Draco was pulling pans out of a low cupboard. Barefoot again, Draco looked more casual than Harry had ever seen him. He had dressed in light grey trousers and a white cotton t-shirt. It was long sleeved, but so thin that when Draco reached up to open a cabinet, Harry could see the smudged ink of the Dark Mark through the material. For a moment, Harry was surprised not to recoil from the sight. But Draco was not the person he had once been, and Harry had known that for a while now. He was even starting to understand that Draco may have never been the person Harry once thought he was, not entirely. And Draco’s Mark was just another scar.

“You brew in the kitchen?” Harry asked.

“Best place for it.” Draco shrugged, then added, “you can sit if you’d like.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, sinking gratefully into one of the two chairs positioned on either side of a narrow table.

He looked out the window, watching the people coming and going from the curry shop below. Draco moved efficiently through the kitchen, mumbling to himself from time to time. Harry was lapsing into another half-awake doze when the sound of eggs cracking roused him. He shook off his sleepiness and stared curiously at Draco, who was now whisking something in a large bowl. A carton of milk, a butter dish, and a loaf of bread lay on the faded green counter and a frying pan was heating up on the stove. 

“Draco,” Harry asked slowly, “are you making me French toast?”

“No,” Draco said, still whisking. “I am brewing you a potion that will replenish your energy and lift your mood.”

“You’re using bread,” Harry observed. “That’s not a potions ingredient. And you have a frying pan instead of a cauldron!”

Not deigning that with a response, Draco pointed over his shoulder at a slightly crooked shelf that hung above the table. He wrestled the plastic coating off the bread and began to dip slices of it into the egg mixture.

Harry stood to examine the shelf and found a shockingly large collection of Muggle cookbooks. Sandwiched in the middle were three fat leather tomes.

_“Solid Potions: Radical New Recipes,”_ Harry read aloud. _“Reinventing Potions For Fun and Profit. Nourishment Potions: Where Food and Magic Collide.”_

Sizzling sounds came from the stove as Draco dropped the first pieces of bread into the frying pan. He leaned over to sniff something bubbling in a small pot. His face screwed up for a second, before he brightened and added a pinch of cinnamon.

Harry felt like he had been dropped into an alternate universe. He went back to studying the books. He even pulled one out to read the first few pages, but the tiny text strained his tired eyes.

“These can’t be real,” Harry said, giving up when the words began to blur together. His brow furrowed as he stared across the kitchen suspiciously. “Draco, did you – did you make _fake_ Potions books?”

“Yes, Potter,” Draco drawled, expertly flipping golden-brown slices of French toast out of the frying pan and onto plates. “As it so happens, I am an incredibly powerful seer. I foresaw your visit here today and spent hours writing fake Potions books, just to trick you into eating breakfast with me.” He drizzled each portion with something red and syrupy from the small pot, followed by a dusting of powdered sugar.

After turning off the stove, Draco carried the plates over to the table and set one down in front of Harry. The rich, buttery scent wafted upward, making Harry’s mouth water. He plopped back into his seat eagerly, hunger outweighing his suspicions.

“Careful,” Draco said as Harry picked up his utensils. “It’s probably poisoned,” he finished in a confiding whisper.

Harry rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. Draco smirked and tucked into his own plate.

Harry followed suit, cutting himself a large bite and groaning as the tang of raspberry hit his tongue. The tartness complemented the custardy sweetness perfectly, and aside from babbling a few compliments at Draco, Harry found himself entirely unable to focus on conversation until he had polished off his first piece.

Draco got up to fetch two glasses of water. When he returned to the table, Harry gulped the drink down gratefully and finally looked up from his food.

“So you needed a dose of this – what was it again? – ‘energy and happiness’ potion too?” Harry asked, mouth quirking at the corner to soften the sarcasm.

Draco’s fingers slipped on his fork, and it scraped harshly against his plate. Taking a moment to gather himself, Draco straightened in his seat. “It is rude to serve a guest a potion without partaking yourself. Have you no manners, Potter?” He brought another bite to his lips, chewing and swallowing before he continued. “Besides, I was awake most of the night.”

“Right.” Harry squirmed uncomfortably. “I really am sorry about that.”

Draco looked taken aback at the comment. He sighed and crossed his fork and knife neatly on his plate. “No, that’s not what I – no, Potter, it wasn’t your fault. It is what I meant for us to talk about though.”

“Yeah?” Harry ran a finger through the pool of raspberry sauce on his plate and stuck it into his mouth. He chuckled softly at Draco’s pained expression.

Suppressing a minute shudder, Draco folded his hands into his lap. “Yes. I had intended to walk home after – what happened, but there was some kind of barrier ward around the doors and windows that would not let me through.”

“What?” Harry exclaimed, fork falling from his hand with a clatter. “Merlin, Malfoy! I’m so sorry. You really should have woken me.”

Draco waved that off with a hand. “I don’t think it would have helped. Assuming you did not set up spells to trap intruders –” he paused and Harry shook his head – “it seems likely that the magic drawing us together has unknown requirements that must be met before we can part.”

Harry thought about that. “Well, shit,” he said. He picked up his fork and glumly shoved another piece of French toast into his mouth. Draco hummed in agreement.

Harry suddenly gasped and choked a bit on his food. “That –” he coughed roughly and paused for a sip of water – “that happened to me the first time – er, sort of. I got dizzy and it was hard to walk, like there was a barrier trying to push me the other way. Toward _you,_ maybe?” He frowned uncertainly at Draco.

Draco stared at the wall above Harry’s head, eyes unfocused and thoughtful. “Did the second time make you dizzy too?”

“No.” Harry put a hand to his temple, struggling to remember. “No, but the feeling was the same, in my chest. It felt empty – so empty it hurt.”

“Empty,” Draco mused. He leaned back in his chair, unconsciously rubbing his fingertips across his sternum. “I couldn’t breathe. That’s emptiness as well, in a way.”

“Draco?” Harry asked, fighting the urge to close his eyes. The word _empty_ echoed in his mind, threatening to drag him back into the gut-wrenching despair that had clawed at him in the night.

“Yes?”

“Were you – I mean, er – last night, when it happened, were you having a nightmare, too?” Harry said, trying not to sound too hopeful. He tugged at the hair that spilled over his forehead, needing an excuse to look away from Draco. “You said – that is, well – the first two times we were doing similar things, so I thought, maybe –” He trailed off, stomach roiling uncomfortably.

“No,” Draco said. “I wasn’t asleep. The rain woke me, but I hadn’t been dreaming, even before.”

“Oh,” Harry whispered, voice embarrassingly faint. “Never mind then.” He was no longer even remotely hungry, but he ate another forkful anyway, just for something to do.

“What do you think we should do?” Harry asked, when the French toast was finished.

Some of the tension dropped away from Draco’s shoulders, as if he was relieved to be asked a practical question. “I suppose I should do some research, though I’m not entirely certain where to start. Bonding charms, perhaps?” He paused, one finger tapping against that silver ring he always wore on his right hand. “But we weren’t near each other before it happened, so I don’t see how that could be it.”

“Could it be some kind of life debt?” Harry suggested hesitantly. He wasn’t sure it was a good idea to bring up the past, even vaguely. It was not an easy thing, to sort out what Harry and Draco owed each other. The majority of their relationship had been a tangle of barbs and razorblades, and even their moments of saving each other had held a sharp edge. 

Draco’s breath quickened, almost imperceptibly, but when he spoke, his voice was calm. “No, I don’t think so. Life debts do not function like this.” He waved a hand between himself and Harry. “And usually, they have to be formally invoked by one of the two parties.”

Alarmed, Harry pushed his chair away from the table. He leaned forward and locked eyes with Draco. “I promise I didn’t invoke a life debt.”

“I didn’t think you had, Potter,” Draco scoffed, but the way he shook his head looked amused. He got to his feet and began to clear the table. “What were you planning to do about it?” he asked, looking over his shoulder as he dropped the plates into the sink. “Before I – when it was just you, I mean.”

Harry shrugged. “Ask Hermione, then pretend to read the books she threw at me until she told me the answer.”

Draco huffed out a breath and shook his head again. “Remind me how you managed to save the world?” he teased.

“That’s it. That’s literally how we did it. I waved my wand around until Hermione told me the answer.” Harry’s tone was light, but Draco must have heard the thread of self-doubt beneath, because he dropped the sponge he was holding and came back to the table.

“Potter,” he said, tone serious. His hands were tightly clenched on the back of his chair, “you know that you – that you –”

“I know,” Harry cut in. He understood what Draco was trying to say, somehow knew that Draco would stubbornly stutter on until he found the words to proclaim Harry a hero. But Harry didn’t want to hear it. He pressed his lips together and looked away.

Draco let out a soft breath, but thankfully, he didn’t press the matter. “You haven’t asked – Hermione about the apparition yet?”

Harry shook his head.

“Why not?”

“It seemed like it had stopped,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “And – well, I may be avoiding her?”

Draco raised an eyebrow.

“She keeps asking me uncomfortable questions,” Harry admitted.

“Is that so?” Draco grinned crookedly. “About _what?”_

“Nothing!” Heat flooded Harry’s face. “Er – do you have any more of that tea you made me?” he asked quickly. “The green one? Lightning storm something?”

It was as if Harry’s blush flew through the air to infect Draco. Suddenly a splotchy scarlet color, he mumbled, “yes, of course,” and busied himself with making tea.

By the time he brought two steaming mugs back to the table, his face was its usual color again and he seemed to have settled. Harry sighed happily at his first sip, and a comfortable silence descended over them. Outside, thunder rumbled, and the kitchen darkened as rainclouds overtook the sun.

As he was pouring them each a second cup, Draco eyed Harry nervously. He wrapped his hands around his mug and said softly, “I have nightmares too.”

He ducked his head, but glanced up at Harry, as if trying to gauge his reaction. 

Harry’s pulse thundered in his ears. “Yeah?” he managed, voice a rough croak.

Draco nodded. “About the Dar – _Voldemort.”_ He shivered and gripped his left forearm, running a thumb over the Dark Mark. “About his snake. Poison dripping from its fangs, biting into me. Sometimes –” Draco swallowed hard – “sometimes it has my father’s eyes.” His expression clouded over with shame.

Harry wanted to reach out and take his hand, entwine their fingers and soothe away Draco’s pain. But he didn’t think Draco would welcome the touch. So he decided instead, to return the trust Draco was offering, to honor Draco’s admission with one of his own.

“Mine’s blank, just me wandering through an endless white space. It lasts forever, pretty boring, really –” he laughed humorlessly – “until I reach this dark patch. And at the center of the darkness, there’s a dead body. Sirius, usually. But sometimes Fred, Remus, even Dumbledore. Sometimes someone who didn’t even die – Ron, Hermione, my godson Teddy. It’s always the same, no matter who it is. They’re in a pool of blood, and as I stumble backward, I see my hands are red and I’m holding a knife.”

Harry exhaled slowly and rubbed a hand across his face. He looked up at Draco with a grim smile.

Draco met his eyes with a solemn nod. “That’s awful, Potter. I’m sorry.”

Harry liked that, that Draco did not cringe away. That he accepted the horror of it, didn’t try to explain it away, didn’t demean it with empty words of comfort.

“Thank you,” Harry said, and he hoped Draco knew that he meant for all of it. For breakfast and his company, for not looking at Harry like he was broken, for being clever and interesting and creating the best tea Harry had ever drank.

But Harry did not know how to say the things he meant, so he just bumped his socked foot against Draco’s.

Draco smiled into his cup and did not pull his foot away. 

Quite unexpectedly, Harry’s heart fluttered.


	7. tangled longings

Grimacing, Draco closed the book he had been reading. Ink was smudged over his fingertips, and he grumbled to himself as he rummaged around his desk drawer for one of the cheap ballpoint pens he would never admit to preferring over quills. He abandoned the fruitless search after a few moments, succumbing to the queasy feeling in his stomach. He hadn’t been entirely prepared for the grisly details the book contained, and he needed a break before returning to diligently taking notes.

Draco stood and moved toward the open window. Sticking his head out, he leaned his elbows against the sill. Outside was just an overgrown alley – dirt and weeds and discarded bottles – but the hum of insects and the sun-warmed air always managed to settle Draco. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to deduce what Maeve was baking from the scents on the wind. It would be easier, of course, to simply walk to the kitchen and ask, or even to shout the question across the space between them, but this way was infinitely more fun.

Catching a whiff of mint, Draco chuckled softly. The smell was decidedly out of place in the heavy heat of the day, but Maeve started her Christmas baking experiments earlier every year, and Draco knew he would soon have the pleasure of sampling her increasingly intricate concoctions.

“Draco!” Maeve yelled, snapping Draco out of his chocolate-tinged daydream. “There’s a young man here to see you!”

At that, Draco jumped, cracking his head against the solid wooden window frame. He did not even register the pain.

A young man? Surely she couldn’t mean… _Potter?_

Heart pounding, Draco attempted to smooth down his hair with shaking fingers. Too late, he remembered the ink and snatched his hand away, hoping he had not accidentally stained the blond strands. He hastily wiped his palms against the back of the curtains before adopting a casual position perched on the wide sill of the window.

Draco took a steadying breath, but his pulse continued to skitter erratically. Potter, returning to the teashop? And less than twenty-four hours after Draco had seen him last! It was a wondrous thing, equal parts thrilling and agonizing.

Something had seemed to shift between them yesterday, as they shared breakfast in Draco’s flat. There had been a warmth in Potter’s eyes that Draco had never seen before, a glimmer that went beyond the cautious hope Potter exhibited after the first apparition incident, when he’d said _see you around._ At the time, those words had slipped quietly inside Draco’s skin, heating his whole body with the allure of possibility. But even that had been much easier to dismiss than the expression on Harry’s face yesterday, when he pressed his foot to Draco’s after they’d spoken of the darkness in their dreams.

Still, Draco had firmly told himself this morning that Potter was only spending time with him because of the unknown magic currently tethering them together. Once they discovered a way to sever that cord, Potter would return to his life and Draco would be left to his own devices. Normalcy would settle over him like a coating of dust, and he had to be prepared for when that happened.

But if Potter was here, _now,_ when there had not yet been time enough for him to consult Hermione Granger, then he was not here about their apparition problem. And if he was not here about their apparition problem, then maybe he simply _wanted to see Draco?_ And if that was the case, then maybe – 

Heavy footsteps echoed against the cement floor of the storage room, cutting into Draco’s thoughts. A tall man in impeccable navy-blue dress robes rounded the corner and entered Draco’s workshop. Eyes fixed on the man’s aggressively shiny buttons, Draco tried to swallow past the raw _hurt_ clawing up from his chest. For a moment, he felt so hollow that he half expected to pop out of existence and find himself prostrate on the ground at Potter’s feet. 

“Why are you sitting like that?” Blaise Zabini asked in his deep, melodious voice. He crossed his arms and smiled cheekily at Draco. “You look like you’re posing for a photograph that nobody asked for and less than nobody wants to see.”

“Hello, Blaise,” Draco said dully, hiding his lingering disappointment behind an unimpressed look. He rose imperiously to his feet and returned to his desk.

Blaise dragged a chair over and sat opposite him, loosening his tie and propping his feet up on the corner of the desk. Draco scowled as he rescued some of his papers, but did not otherwise protest. Blaise would actually have been quite a pleasant surprise if Draco hadn’t gone and gotten himself all tangled up in hope and Harry Potter. As the sting faded, he found himself able to look up and smile at his friend.

“What, no tea?” Draco asked, pressing a hand to his chest in exaggerated shock. “Maeve must be going soft, letting you get away with that.”

Blaise’s booming laugh filled the small room. “I drank it already. Lovely little cup of your peach blend, iced.” He smacked his lips. “Glad you talked Maeve around on that one. Hot tea is obviously the superior beverage, I’ll give her that, but sometimes a man needs something to chill the blood.”

“And what had your blood up at this hour of the morning, Blaise?” Draco all but purred, relishing the distraction. “Did you have a – _scintillating_ business meeting?”

“Something like that,” Blaise replied breezily, brushing off the implication, but Draco noticed his eye twitch, an intriguing little tell.

Draco leaned forward, a shark scenting blood.

Blaise leaned forward to meet him, matching Draco’s sharp smirk. Then he smoothly swiped Draco’s discarded book from the desktop and relaxed back into his chair. Draco forced himself not to react, doing his best to look bored. Blaise must have sensed the slight rigidity of Draco’s spine though, because his smirk deepened.

“What’s this?” Blaise asked, voice deceptively innocent. “Bonding charms?” He ran a finger down the book’s spine as he looked across the desk at Draco, eyes dancing with amusement.

Draco dropped his gaze as his cheeks heated. He quickly schooled his expression, but it was not enough to deter Blaise.

“Draco, Draco, Draco,” Blaise chided teasingly. “What have you not been telling me? Perhaps you’ve had some _scintillating_ business, to use your charming phrase, of your own?”

“Just some light reading,” Draco remarked, leaning back in his chair and propping an ankle on his opposite thigh. “You do know how I feel about magical theory,” he finished with a casual shrug.

“Oh really?” The grin Blaise gave Draco then had something peculiarly close to triumph in its edges. Draco’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Is that all?” Blaise went on. “No beautiful damsel on your arm, pestering you to make an honest man out of him?”

Draco snorted.

“I must say, I am surprised to find you looking into bonding charms though.” Blaise paused thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t have expected you to jump head first into ancient pure-blood traditions the moment you fell in love, but if that’s what you want, well –” he placed a hand over his heart and winked at Draco – “I fully support you.”

“No one’s in love,” Draco said dismissively. He clenched his teeth as his heart wriggled unhappily. Despite being perfectly true, the statement felt like a lie. Somehow, Draco managed to toss his head unconcernedly. “And you know quite well that there are no ancient pure-blood marriage spells that would function for a same-sex couple.”

“Heart-breaking, truly,” Blaise said.

“Hardly,” Draco scoffed. “I am no longer remotely interested in pure-blood approval. Besides –” he gestured at the book – “bonding spells are barbaric.”

“I don’t know,” Blaise mused, flipping through the pages with renewed interest. “I might not mind trying one. They _are_ supposed to enhance certain… _elements_ of the marriage in truly scandalous ways.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Draco suppressed a shudder. “No, thank you.”

“I didn’t know you were so confident in your bedroom skills, Draco,” Blaise said, mouth a lascivious slant. 

Draco rolled his eyes. Without a word, he took the book from Blaise, shuffled to a bookmarked page, and set it back down. Pushing it toward Blaise, he tapped his finger against a very particular section and waited for his friend to read.

Blaise scanned the text, his smile faltering. There was a loud thud as he allowed his feet to fall from the desk and hit the floor. Fingers tight on the book, he stared hard at Draco, expression aghast.

“Oh,” Blaise said in a strangled little voice. “Oh _Merlin.”_ He nudged the book back across the desk, looking decidedly unwell. “I don’t believe I will ever be able to scour that image from my mind.” He slumped in his seat. “And that happens after a single unfaithful _thought?”_ he finally asked, sounding horrified.

Draco nodded. “Be grateful I spared you the passage about actual infidelity. It is _far_ worse.”

Blaise winced. “You’re a good friend, Draco,” he said solemnly. “Thank you.”

Draco huffed out a laugh, and when he saw that Blaise was still eyeing the book nervously, he tucked it away in one of his desk drawers.

Visibly more relaxed with the book out of sight, Blaise began to chatter away about his latest pastimes. Two weeks ago, while browsing antique stores with an exceedingly demanding client, Blaise had stumbled across an ornamental clock that tickled his fancy. Upon bringing it home, he discovered that it was wrapped in layers of protective magic that he spent days unraveling, only to find a mysterious clue that led him to an underground grotto with gorgeous, iridescent paintings decorating the cave walls.

Apparently, the antique shop specialized in magical scavenger hunts, and anyone who had solved a clue was invited to return and leave behind an object of their own, as long as it would lead the lucky buyer to a similarly majestic location. Each clue and solution were thoroughly vetted before being put on sale, and Blaise had become rather obsessed with getting one of his own ideas approved by the persnickety shop owner.

Fascinated, Draco listened attentively, too absorbed to remember to put on the kettle when Blaise’s visit stretched into the early afternoon. He even offered some of his own suggestions for the clues Blaise was now working on in his spare time.

Eventually, Blaise ran out of things to talk about and looked at Draco expectantly.

Draco shifted in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable. 

Most days, Draco was content with the quiet life he led. He had Maeve and tea, and a cozy sort of peace that he had never experienced at the Manor. It was enough, and likely more than he deserved. “Peace” didn’t yield much in the way of conversation though. Blaise had funny work stories and bizarre adventures to share, and Draco… well, Draco had twenty pounds of dehydrated rose petals. 

Mumbling something about being thirsty, Draco stood and poked around the cabinets until he found a tea strong enough to suit Blaise’s tastes.

“Speaking of hobbies,” Blaise said, not bothering to look up from his perusal of the half-developed recipes cluttering Draco’s desk, “have you seen Harry Potter recently?”

Draco almost dropped the mugs he was holding. Forcing himself to take slow breaths through his nose, he placed the mugs down carefully on the long table. He began to fidget with his ring as he waited for the water to boil. 

“I fail to see how that is speaking of hobbies,” Draco countered, trying to ignore the heat coursing up his spine.

“It was the strangest thing,” Blaise said. “I was passing by here last week, or perhaps it was the week before? I was meeting a client at a restaurant or I would have stopped in, of course – and I saw Potter leaving your shop.”

Draco hummed non-committedly and filled the teapot. 

_“Under the Lake,”_ he said, depositing the pot and mugs onto the desk in front of Blaise. “Bold, notes of pepper and pine, lightly floral underneath.”

Blaise inhaled the fragrant steam. “Delightful,” he declared, pouring himself a large cup. “So what business did Harry Potter have at the illustrious Novelle Teas?”

Draco sipped nonchalantly from his mug. “I suppose he wanted a cup of tea. I assume even boy heroes get thirsty every now and then.”

“So you didn’t see him?” Blaise asked, mouth turning down at the corners.

“I didn’t say that.” Draco took another swallow of tea and looked evenly back at Blaise.

“Huh,” Blaise breathed, one eyebrow raised questioningly.

Draco did not elaborate and Blaise chose to let the subject drop, but as they headed into the shop to wheedle cakes out of Maeve, Draco could feel the intensity of his gaze, and he knew that had he turned to look, he would have seen Blaise wearing the expression of someone who was one move away from checkmating his opponent’s king.

***

Draco rested his head against the cool tiles of his shower and let the water beat down on his back. It had been exhausting, minding his tongue throughout the conversation with Blaise.

Especially considering it was not necessary. 

Draco had never spoken about his feelings for Potter, not at Hogwarts and not even during all those long nights he and Blaise had sat up together, after the war. They hadn’t known then, if Draco would be sentenced to Azkaban alongside his father, and Blaise was the only reason Draco had stayed sane while awaiting the verdict.

But Draco was not as hard to read as most Slytherins, not as circumspect as his father had tried to force him to be, and he was well aware that his tangled longings for Harry Potter had not gone unnoticed. None of his house-mates had ever confronted Draco directly, but there had been certain – _remarks._ Jokes masquerading as harmless but laced with poison, deadly barbs meant to maim and wound. 

Blaise knew, of that Draco had no doubt. And Blaise had never teased him, not about that. No, Blaise had been the one to divert attention away from Draco, to shoot the arrow back at the aggressor without ever seeming to intend offense. It was a detached humor that Blaise practiced, one that had always protected Draco without calling attention to the fact.

Draco could have told Blaise. He could have told him all of it. The troublesome apparition, the coziness of Potter’s house, borrowed shoes and French toast and Potter in Draco’s flat. Even the heartache tea. Blaise would have understood.

The water spluttered, slowing to a trickle before gushing from the showerhead in an unpleasantly cold rush. Draco hit his head against the tiles, muttering crossly to himself and reaching for the soap. Served him right, moping about in the shower because he didn’t have the backbone to confide in his oldest friend. He deserved this freezing water.

It was just so bloody _embarrassing._ Draco allowed himself a beleaguered growl as he lathered his arms and chest. Harry Potter popping up any time Draco was injured or bleeding or wearing his damn pajamas! Like the universe was seeking out his most vulnerable moments and taunting him with everything he could never have. 

Rinsing himself off, Draco groped blindly for his bottle of shampoo, only to find it empty. With a growl of frustration, he threw it petulantly to the floor. Hearing it clatter across the tiles of the bathroom was not as satisfying as he had hoped, and he was now shivering violently in the frigid stream of water still pouring from the pipes.

“Bugger this,” he grumbled, moving to turn off the water. 

Hand on the tap, Draco hesitated. He really needed to wash his hair; he’d been blending a particularly pungent herbal tea today and he knew the scent would trouble him in the night if he didn’t thoroughly clean himself.

“Fuck,” he whispered, teeth chattering as he hopped out of the shower, determined to fetch a new shampoo and get this over with as quickly as humanly possible.

He let himself drip onto the bath mat for a moment, not wanting to track the damp onto the floor of his bedroom. But before he could take a single step, he heard a loud crack.

A hissing panic overtook Draco’s brain, the words _no, oh no, no no no, bloody hell, please no_ racing about in dizzying spirals, leaving scant enough room for themselves, let alone more practical thoughts. And so, entirely naked and without the wherewithal to even attempt to cover himself, Draco looked up into the astonished face of Harry Potter.

For the length of two frantic heartbeats, Harry Potter stared at Draco’s exposed cock.

Draco’s pulse thundered in his ears and he felt himself growing faint. Then Potter gasped and his eyes snapped up to Draco’s. 

Draco expected Potter to blush, to avert his eyes and stammer out an apology before fleeing the room. That’s surely what Draco would have done, had their positions been reversed. But Harry surprised him.

“Draco, you’re shaking,” he said, brow wrinkling in concern. 

Scooping up a towel from a nearby shelf, Harry moved closer and tried to wrap it around Draco. With a rather undignified noise, Draco shuffled out of his reach. He snatched the towel from Harry’s hands and draped it over himself.

Blushing furiously, he reached to turn off the shower. With his back to Harry and still shivering, he said, “I’m f-fine, Potter. Please l-leave while I dress.”

“Right, yeah, ok,” Harry babbled, tugging on his hair in a belated rush of uncertainty. “Sorry, I’ll just –” his eyes roved wildly about the room, looking anywhere but at Draco – “sorry!” he almost squeaked. 

A moment later, Potter was gone, shutting the door firmly behind him. 

Draco groaned and fell to his knees.

***

Potter leapt up from his seat in the kitchen the moment Draco worked up the nerve to emerge from the bedroom. He braced a hand on the edge of the table, and it looked to be the only thing preventing him from rushing toward Draco.

“Are you alright?” he demanded, gnawing on his lip worriedly.

“Fine,” Draco said.

“Are you sure?” Potter’s eyes flickered toward Draco and away again. “You were shaking really badly.”

“It was nothing. I lingered too long in the shower and ran out of hot water,” Draco explained, only realizing his mistake when Potter frowned in confusion. He rushed to continue before Potter could think too hard about why Draco had not cast a simple warming charm. “Don’t nag, Potter.”

Potter nodded reluctantly. There was an awkward silence as he seemed to study Draco.

“You look – nice,” he offered, and it sounded as though he meant it. He scratched absently at one of his wrists and gave Draco an encouraging smile. “Are you going somewhere?”

“What?” Draco asked, as startled by the compliment as the question. “No, I – no.” 

“Oh.” Potter’s cheeks colored slightly and he ducked his head.

Tugging sheepishly at his shirt collar, Draco stared down at his polished shoes and realized that he may have overcompensated for the moment of nudity. His midnight blue tie was well past the bounds of casual house attire even without the waistcoat he had buttoned over his grey shirt. Wearing the colors of an evening storm, Draco was as sharp as the instant before a lightning strike, charged with potential. And it was entirely too much.

Draco cleared his throat uncomfortably, then crossed the room to fetch a plate from one of the cabinets.

“Have a potion, Potter,” he said, setting the plate on the table.

Potter blinked down at him. “Those are biscuits,” he said slowly.

Raising an eyebrow, Draco sat down at the table. Silently, and without breaking eye contact, he slid the plate across the table toward Potter.

Potter’s eyes fluttered closed for the briefest of moments. “Fine,” he said, blowing out an amused breath and dropping heavily into his chair. “What’s it do?”

“It –” Draco faltered, thinking frantically. “It improves blood circulation while lowering the heartrate and inducing a carefree feeling. It is ideal for smoothing over –” he brushed the hair out of his face – “awkwardness.”

“Ah,” Potter said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Is it poisoned?”

Draco smirked back at him. “Probably.”

“Alright, then,” Potter said agreeably, effecting an exaggerated shrug. “Cheers!” He seized a biscuit and held it out to Draco with a meaningful look.

When Draco looked back at him in confusion, Potter stared pointedly at the plate and jerked his chin toward Draco’s hand. Understanding dawned, and Draco couldn’t help but laugh. Astonishing even himself, Draco selected a biscuit and “clinked” it against Potter’s in a mocking little toast.

The softness of Harry’s answering smile took Draco’s breath away.

As they munched on the biscuits and the sky outside darkened, the dinner rush building and dissipating at the curry shop below, Draco had the vague sense that they should be discussing the apparition problem, that he should be asking to consult Hermione Granger right now this very second, that he should insist the situation had gone far enough and that he would not be subjected to this kind of humiliation again...

Instead, he found himself leaning closer to Potter across the table, teasing and laughing and blushing as they passed the evening talking of other things.

And when Draco put together a simple meal of chicken and salad, Harry thanked him warmly and accepted the “potion” without argument.


	8. banged head potion

Cool fingertips caressed Harry’s cheek, the touch cutting straight through the dull throbbing in his head. He groaned, choking slightly on the air he finally managed to suck into his aching lungs.

“Harry?” a tentative voice asked. Its fingers slipped down to the pulse point of Harry’s neck.

He opened his eyes to find Draco kneeling over him, face pinched with worry. Harry’s breath came a little easier at the unexpected sight, relieved as always to no longer be alone in the empty cottage.

It had been nearly a week since the last apparition incident, and Harry had grown impatient waiting for the next opportunity to see Draco. He supposed he could have sought Draco out, popped into the tea shop or even stopped by his flat under the pretense of fancying a curry. If they were friends now – and Harry was fairly certain they were – then surely they were allowed to spend time together outside the bounds of the curse (if you could call whatever this was a curse, that is).

But something had held Harry back.

He thought it might be the memory of Draco just out of the shower, so elegant and self-possessed, even while nude and shaking. Harry wasn’t sure why his mind kept circling back to that afternoon, wasn’t sure what about it bothered him. Draco was beautiful, yes, but Harry had seen beautiful men before and had never lost sleep over it. But with Draco it was different, and Harry did not know why.

Harry pushed away the question as he pushed himself upright, embarrassed to realize how long he had been lying on the floor, just staring up at Draco. Draco’s hand moved automatically to support Harry’s back, and he helped him into a more comfortable position leaning against the coffee table.

“Thanks,” Harry wheezed, heart racing. It must be delayed adrenaline from the fall. 

The image of Draco’s naked skin, pale and glistening, flickered again in Harry’s mind. The memory seemed to shimmer between them, unspoken yet strangely insistent. Harry forced himself to breathe slowly as he fought off a blush.

Draco sat back on his heels, brow creased as he studied Harry. “Are you alright? Should I – do you need me to – to call someone?”

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head. He winced and brought a hand to his skull, prodding for a bruise. “I’m fine. Just got the breath knocked out of me, I think.”

“And your head?” Draco asked, eyeing Harry’s massaging fingers skeptically.

Harry let his hand drop and shrugged, not quite ready to meet Draco’s penetrating gaze. “I’ve had worse at Quidditch.”

Draco frowned like he wanted to argue, but quickly relented and glanced curiously around the room. “What happened?” he asked, just as his eyes caught on the overturned ladder. He snorted and raised an eyebrow at Harry.

“I fell,” he admitted, with an amused eye roll. “Obviously.”

“I gathered, Potter,” Draco retorted. “What were you doing?”

A odd pang of loss flashed through Harry at the sound of his surname. Had he imagined the whispered _Harry_ a moment ago? 

With an involuntary sigh, he shook off the feeling and answered Draco. “I was trying to attach my new shelf to the wall, but I couldn’t get the right wand angle from the floor. I scrounged up that ladder from the garden shed. I guess it’s seen better days.”

“And I suppose it would have been beneath you to secure it with a stabilizing spell?”

“Didn’t think of it,” Harry replied nonchalantly as he bounded to his feet. “Doesn’t matter now,” he added with a grin. “I finished the spell before the ladder collapsed.”

Draco blinked up at him from the floor, then stood with an unimpressed huff. Harry was already dragging the ladder away to better admire his shelf. Easier to focus on that than on Draco.

“Took you long enough,” Draco scoffed, but his eyes were warm as he watched Harry begin to arrange his colorful mugs throughout the square cubbyholes of the shelf. “It was half assembled on the floor when I was here a week ago.”

“You can’t rush art, Draco” Harry chided. He placed a purple polka-dotted mug on the shelf with an exaggerated flourish and tossed a wink at Draco over his shoulder.

 _“Art_ is it?” Draco said haughtily, and the sound made Harry’s stomach flip.

Draco drifted closer, reaching out to finger the shelf’s decorative molding, where Harry had carved a delicate pattern of leaves. “I suppose it is rather nice,” he finally conceded.

“Thank you.” Harry’s entire body warmed with the compliment.

They lapsed into silence then, the quiet broken only by the soft clinks of the mugs as Harry filled the shelf. Draco perched himself on the edge of the coffee table, apparently content to continue watching Harry. Harry’s skin prickled beneath the intensity of those grey eyes.

He was practically vibrating with tension by the time he turned to find Draco holding one of the few remaining mugs. It was large, painted in shifting shades of glimmering blue.

“This one is my favorite,” Draco said, rubbing a thumb along the rim almost reverently. “It would pair perfectly with the first tea I ever invented. I was imagining that, the night I spent here.”

Draco looked up at Harry then, panic sparking momentarily in his eyes. It was obvious he had said more than he’d meant to. His cheeks colored, and he ducked his head as he set the mug down firmly on the table.

The nostalgia in Draco’s voice was like a summer wind chasing through Harry, stirring up forgotten dust. His heart cried out, aching with a want that Harry could not quite define. He swallowed hard before moving to sit beside Draco.

“Will you bring that tea over sometime?” Harry asked, nudging him gently with a shoulder. “I’d like to taste it.”

Draco’s eyes snapped back to Harry’s. “Yes,” he said, after a weighty pause. “If you like.”

Without breaking eye contact, Harry lifted the blue mug and pressed it into Draco’s hands. “Where should we put it?” he asked. 

Not a moment later, Harry’s mind snagged on the word _we,_ and he had to bite back a startled exclamation. Suddenly uncomfortable, he looked away from Draco. The air seemed to buzz as Draco hesitated, but then he stood and slowly approached the shelf. 

“Here,” he said at last, positioning the mug in a spot near the center. 

The surrounding mugs were of more subdued colors, allowing the crisp blues and glittery sheen to really pop.

Draco took a step back, surveying the shelf from more of a distance. He nodded to himself and turned to lean against the wall, arms crossed and a crooked little smirk aimed at Harry. The self-satisfied expression was so charming, and at such odds with the uncertainty in Draco’s eyes, that Harry’s head swam dizzily.

“Perfect,” he breathed, and he had no idea if he was referring to the shelf or to Draco himself.

Draco’s face softened. “Are you sure your head is alright?” he asked, that compelling crease once again furrowing his brow. “You look a bit – odd.”

“Yes!” Harry blurted, tucking his hands into his armpits defensively. “Fine!”

Draco did not look convinced. With a huge mental effort, Harry managed to pull himself together. He relaxed his posture and grinned up at Draco.

“Why? Do you have some type of ‘banged head’ potion hidden away somewhere?”

To Harry’s surprise, Draco actually seemed to think about it. He muttered to himself and patted at the pockets of his trousers. “No,” he said apologetically. “But – how well stocked is your kitchen? I’m certain I can find _something.”_

Harry gaped at him. “Draco, I was joking.”

“Oh,” Draco sighed. He almost looked disappointed. “I suppose I should be going then.”

Harry sprang to his feet, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Oh, ok – er, were you busy? Sorry, I should have asked instead of doing the shelf.” He gnawed on his lip and shuffled awkwardly in place, unsure why he had stood up. “I guess I’m kind of getting used to the apparition thing.”

“No,” Draco said hurriedly. “No, I – well, it’s my day off, actually.”

“Yeah?” Harry brightened. “Maybe you could stay then? Hermione’s had a work meeting cancelled, so she’s going to stop in. I figured I’d ask her about –” he gestured vaguely between them – “all this.”

“Oh,” Draco said, shoulders slumping. “No, I – shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Harry asked. “It would be better with us both to explain, I think. I almost fire-called your shop to invite you, but it was last minute and I wasn’t sure I should bother you at work.”

Draco’s eyebrows quirked, and he brought up a hand to stifle a laugh.

The corner of Harry’s mouth twitched. “What?”

Draco shook his head with a smile. “Maeve would be delighted if you bothered me at work.”

“I’ll remember that,” Harry promised. He moved to lean against the wall next to Draco. “So you’ll stay?”

“I – well, that is –” Draco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. His eyes darted away from Harry. “I would not want to intrude. I doubt Granger would find me a – _pleasant_ surprise.”

“She won’t mind,” Harry said, resting a reassuring hand on Draco’s shoulder. “She’s mad for mysteries like this. She’ll have a hundred questions, and you’ll be better at answering them than me.”

“Well –” Draco shifted slightly toward Harry.

“Please, Draco? Stay?”

Draco’s fingers twitched, finding their way to that silver ring of his. He twirled it once, then stilled and lifted his eyes back to Harry’s. “Yes, alright.”

“Brilliant,” Harry said. He squeezed Draco’s arm before letting go. “Do you want a cheese toastie?” he asked, already heading for the kitchen. “I bet it’ll be almost as good as a banged head potion, the way I make them.”

Draco’s voice followed Harry, seeming to settle across his shoulders like a warm and comforting scarf. “Only if it’s poisoned.”

Harry’s answering laugh, echoed by Draco’s low chuckle, seemed to set the kitchen alight. “You got it, Malfoy.”

***

“Well,” Hermione said, idly twirling a spoon through the dregs of her tea, “there certainly seems to be a pattern.”

The three of them were sitting around the table in Harry’s sun-dappled kitchen. Though Draco held himself rather stiffly, he had been perfectly polite, and Hermione seemed entirely at ease. She had hardly reacted at all when she stepped out of the floo to find Draco and Harry squabbling over the last triangle of cheese toastie. Draco had just poked Harry in the ribs and taken a triumphantly huge bite.

“Draco, what a pleasant surprise!” she exclaimed, not a second after her arrival. “I want to hear all about this dodgy apparition business and Harry’s useless with details.”

At which point, Draco, wearing a comically shocked expression, had spluttered and choked on his mouthful of cheese. Harry beamed delightedly at Hermione, telling her to help herself to tea while he thumped a rapidly reddening Draco on the back.

By the time Hermione joined them at the table, Draco had regained his composure and she had launched into questioning them without sparing a moment for awkward pleasantries. She acted as though breaking bread with reformed Death Eaters and childhood bullies was as natural as breathing, and soon enough her probing curiosity had smoothed the tension from Draco’s face. He had explained nearly everything, with Harry only contributing a few small points.

“Do you think so?” Draco asked her now. “I’ve noted several recurring elements myself, but nothing seems to fit every incident. There’s always an outlier.”

Hermione shook her head. “The episodes always follow some type of injury, and then the unharmed person involuntarily apparates to the side of the person who is hurt.”

Draco tilted his head, toying with an unused tea bag as he considered this new theory. 

“No, hang on,” Harry interrupted. “I wasn’t hurt the night Draco popped into my bedroom. I just had a bad dream.”

“You were hurting on the inside, Harry.” Hermione’s eyes went soft as she clasped his wrist.

Harry patted her hand before gently pushing it away. He leaned forward to argue, but Draco beat him to it.

“No, I think Potter is right,” he said, lips pursed as he gazed into the far corner of the kitchen. A moment later, he nodded and refocused on Hermione. “Emotional hurt is very different from a cut finger or falling off a ladder. It does not seem likely that a singular spell – or bond, or curse, for that matter – could respond to both superficial injuries _and_ complex, mental processes.”

“And if it’s multiple, interconnected spells?” Hermione countered.

Draco paled at that, and Harry knocked a knee against his under the table in a show of solidarity. After a tiny flinch, Draco pressed more firmly into Harry’s touch. A flare of heat snaked up Harry’s spine.

“Then I’m not sure we have much hope of unraveling it,” Draco sighed. “But that aside, I also was not hurt when Potter apparated into my bathroom. I was cold, certainly, but as I had access to multiple methods of warming myself, I was in no actual danger, neither physically nor emotionally.”

Hermione huffed softly, displeased as ever at being proven wrong. “Walk me through the shower moment again. What were you doing right before Harry arrived?”

Draco hesitated, eyes flitting toward Harry and away again. He shifted slightly on his chair, putting some space between their legs. “I was in the shower after work. It had been a tiring day and I spent too long relaxing in the steam. When the water went cold, I decided to deal with the discomfort and wash quickly, but my shampoo bottle was empty. I got out of the shower to fetch another from the bedroom –” he looked at Harry again, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his lips – “but Potter appeared before I could leave the room.”

Hermione’s head whipped up. “Harry,” she demanded, “the night of your dream – was that the first bad dream you had since Ginny left?”

Harry’s insides squirmed uncomfortably. He’d been avoiding the topic of Ginny with Draco, though he could not say why. Reluctantly, he nodded yes.

“That’s it,” Hermione said. She stood and paced the kitchen, muttering to herself as she counted on her fingers. She was practically glowing when she returned to the table. Bracing her hands on the back of her chair, she grinned down at them. “It’s _need.”_

Draco’s eyes widened. “Emptiness,” he whispered. He stared up at Hermione in awe, as if she had solved the mystery of the cosmos.

“Er – what?” Harry asked, obviously missing whatever connection Hermione and Draco had just made. 

Draco turned to look at him. “Potter, you told me you feel emptiness before it happens. I feel that too.” He skimmed a thumb over his sternum. “Like I _want_ so badly it steals my breath. I think we’re feeling that the other is in _need.”_

“Exactly,” Hermione said. “When you’re injured, you need help. Harry, you needed comfort after your nightmare. It was the first time Ginny wasn’t there to give it to you. And Draco, as silly as it sounds, you needed shampoo.”

“But aren’t all those needs as different as emotional and physical hurt?” Harry asked, face screwed up in confusion. He wasn’t as well versed in magical theory as Hermione and Draco, but he had understood Draco’s earlier argument.

“Yes,” Draco said, frowning. “And no. The body responds differently to physical and emotional pain, but it may be that desire is always processed by the body in the same way, regardless of its source or intensity.” He paused and looked up at them with a wry, self-conscious smile. “I may be getting a little lost in theory here. My knowledge of how magic interacts with physiology only extends so far.”

Hermione exchanged a glance with Harry. _“Physiology?”_ she mouthed to herself before turning back to Draco. Her eyes narrowed, coolly considering, but the corners of her lips turned up with a hint of approval.

“What did you say your job was, Draco?” she asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

Draco’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. “I work at a tea shop.”

Hermione gave a soft, thoughtful hum. “I believe there are many subjects I would enjoy discussing with you, Draco Malfoy. I do hope you won’t be a stranger.”

Draco goggled at her, then looked at Harry in mute appeal. Harry suppressed a laugh and raised his eyebrows at Draco, cocking his head toward Hermione in silent challenge. Draco scowled at him, but the fierce expression failed to cover his apprehension.

“I am at the shop every day save Tuesday and Sunday,” Draco finally replied, “if you’d like to stop by.”

“I think I would,” Hermione said, smiling as she poured herself a fresh cup of tea. “I suppose I should read up on how the brain processes physical verses emotional needs,” she continued smoothly, as if her odd exchange with Draco had not happened. “But I think it’s a solid working theory. It seems to fit better than the injury idea, anyway.”

“No,” Harry said suddenly. “That can’t be it.”

“Why not?” Hermione asked, clearly exasperated.

“The first time it happened, Draco didn’t need anything,” Harry said. Pain welled up in him at the memory of Draco’s bruised eye and swollen cheek. “He was perfectly fine until I crash landed on top of him. I didn’t help him. I _hurt_ him.” 

Harry bit his lip and averted his eyes, afraid the raw sorrow in his voice would betray his confused emotions regarding Draco. 

“You didn’t,” Draco whispered. 

When Harry failed to answer, Draco sighed and tugged on his sleeve. “You didn’t hurt me, Potter,” he said, voice stronger this time. His fingers found the bare skin of Harry’s elbow and they both shivered.

A breeze blew in through the open windows, and the billowing curtains snapped unheeded at the very edge of Harry’s focus. His world had narrowed to encompass only Draco. He was as unaware of Hermione’s presence as if she were no longer in the room.

Harry twisted in his chair, centering his sight fully on Draco. “What do you mean?” he asked, lightly touching Draco’s shoulder.

Draco turned into the touch. Facing Harry now, he folded forward, propping his elbows against his thighs. His head hung limply, sunlight glinting off the strands of white-gold hair that obscured his expression. 

“You didn’t give me that black eye,” Draco said hoarsely, throat ragged. “A man – a stranger, he saw me on the street and started shouting. I think he meant to do worse than one punch, but when you showed up, he ran away.” Draco’s eyes met Harry’s through his fringe. “So I _did_ need you.”

“Oh,” Harry breathed. He rested a hand on Draco’s knee, fingers just inches from Draco’s own. “Why – why did he – did he want money?”

Draco smiled grimly, fingertips brushing against Harry’s. “It’s because I was a Death Eater, Potter.”

Harry hissed in shock, and Draco pulled his hand away.

“I’m so sorry, Draco,” Harry said. He resisted the urge to clutch at Draco’s retreating fingers. “Does that – happen a lot?”

“I –” Draco’s mouth worked, lost for words. Finally, he gulped and straightened his spine. “No. I rarely go out in wizarding areas, so there’s not much opportunity. I should have known better that day, but Maeve wanted a take-away and –” Draco cut himself off abruptly. “This is irrelevant,” he said, shaking his head as if clearing a daze. He readjusted himself in his chair, leaning across the table to address Hermione. “The point is, our theory holds. What do you think we should do next, Granger?”

Harry felt the air crack, as if Draco had snapped a tether between them. He collapsed against the back of his chair, suddenly reeling. Being snatched out of that bubble of intimacy felt like plunging into icy waters, bones fracturing in the shock of cold.

“Research,” Hermione said firmly, as though Draco had not just swept the ground from beneath Harry’s feet. She had crossed her arms and was looking between the two of them appraisingly, but it wasn’t enough to distract her from the matter at hand. “We need to know what kinds of spells could cause a connection like this.”

“I’ve been reading up on bonding spells,” Draco offered. “Nothing I found quite fits, but now that we’ve discussed it, it seems too benign to be a curse.”

“That’s true,” Hermione agreed. Her chin rested in her palm as she drummed the fingers of her other hand against the table.

“It is jarring, certainly,” Draco went on, “and – embarrassing, at times, but it has not hurt us. And if it functions by sending help to the person in need…”

“You’re right.” Hermione nodded, losing her contemplative look. “It’s not a curse. I don’t think we should disregard the possibility of a bond, but it sounds more like some sort of life-debt situation to me.”

“That’s what I thought!” Harry cried, pleased to have something to contribute. “But Draco said life-debts have to be called on before they work.”

“I believe I used the term _invoked,”_ Draco muttered.

Harry waved a hand at him, unbothered.

“I’ll look into it,” Hermione promised. “In the meantime, we need to gather more information. You should start keeping a written record of each incident, to be sure we don’t miss any details.”

“You’re giving us homework?” Harry groaned, but Draco shushed him and nodded his assent.

Hermione tapped a finger against her lips, ignoring Harry’s protest. “I’m also curious to know what would happen if you apparated voluntarily,” she mused. “Neither of you have tried that since this started, have you?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Draco go rigid, face suddenly stony and closed off.

“No,” Harry answered slowly, unnerved by Draco’s reaction. “I’ve kind of been avoiding it, to be honest, but we can try it if you think it would help.”

Draco inhaled shakily and began to fiddle with that dry tea bag again, fingers tugging at it almost violently. After a moment, the filter paper tore, scattering dried leaves across the table. Harry wanted to stop and ask Draco what was wrong, but he was sure Draco wouldn’t thank him for drawing Hermione’s attention to his unease.

As Hermione’s voice washed over them, blurring nonsensically in Harry’s ears, Draco swept the leaves into a neat pile. He plucked a single withered blossom from the mess, studying it intently.

Hermione was still chattering away, none the wiser. “– should set up a few trials. We can experiment with different locations, see if it makes a difference if you’re apparating to each other or away from each other, and then –”

“No.” Draco’s voice was hard as he cut Hermione off. It felt like a window had come crashing down, shutting out the smell of flowers and sunshine, leaving the air tepid and stale.

Hermione looked crestfallen. “Why not? It’s only logical to –”

“I said no.” Draco was still as ice, his words crisp with frost. “I refuse.” He stood slowly, until he towered above them like an immoveable statue. “But if you two want to blunder about like a pair of foolhardy Gryffindors –” he hissed, barely parting his lips – “meddling in matters beyond your infantile understanding, far be it from me to stop you. I believe we’ve taken this farce far enough.”

With that, Draco spun on his heel and wrenched open the door to the garden. It slammed behind him, rattling the cups and plates on the table.

“Does that happen often?” Hermione asked, after a beat of stunned silence. Her startled expression mirrored Harry’s own.

“No,” Harry said emphatically. “Never. I have no idea where that came from.”

Hermione brushed back her hair, eyes thoughtful. “You should go ask him.”

“I don’t know, Hermione.” Harry realized his hands were trembling and balled them into fists beneath the table. “It seems like he wants to be left alone.” 

He felt that telltale emptiness pulling at his chest, the ache creeping into his bones. He didn’t think he could blame it on the apparition thing this time though. Hermione gave him a pitying look, then got to her feet and peered out the window.

“He’s sitting under the apple tree,” she said. “And he looks miserable. I don’t think he’ll turn you away.” She sat in Draco’s empty chair, clucking her tongue disapprovingly at the stubborn jut of Harry’s chin.

“Go on,” Hermione prodded. “You two obviously care about each other. Go find out what’s wrong.”

Harry unclenched his fists and stared down at his palms. “I don’t understand,” he whispered.

“Harry,” Hermione said, pressing a hand to his cheek until he turned to look at her. “Do you remember when I told you to lean into the things that had you distracted?”

“Yeah,” Harry grumbled, “but that doesn’t make any sense! And what does that have to do with –”

Hermione gave him a meaningful look and nodded her head toward the garden. “Go lean into the _person_ who has you distracted.”

“Oh,” Harry said, the sound more strangled wheeze than word. His mind whirled backward, spinning through the past few weeks as every detail, every inexplicable emotion, every wandering thought, suddenly clicked into place. He fell forward, letting his forehead smack into the table. “Oh, _Merlin.”_

Hermione rubbed his back soothingly, but Harry could swear he felt her amusement through her fingers. Her voice was warm when she said, “I’m glad you’re finally figuring it out.”

***

Draco’s eyes looked like the sea after a shipwreck, the deceptive calm that comes with no survivors.

He’d looked up, when Harry had walked across the grass to join him, meeting his eyes with a tentative nod. He didn’t speak though, and Harry decided not to push him. Instead, he sat with his back to the apple tree, not quite next to Draco, but close enough.

The sun was beginning to set, and the wildflowers seemed as bright as fireworks in the fading light. A mild wind ruffled the grass and set the tree branches stirring. Harry rested his head against the tree’s trunk, allowing the perfumed twilight to calm him. He was still a bit shaken by the revelation in the kitchen, but that was a problem for later. Harry still didn’t know quite why, but Draco was shamed and hurting, and Harry’s burgeoning feelings would only complicate things.

“Your tea doesn’t have enough blossoms in it,” Draco said suddenly. It sounded as though he considered this fact a personal affront.

Harry’s eyes snapped open. “Oh?” he asked lightly, wary of saying anything that would discourage Draco from speaking further. 

“That’s why it tastes bitter.”

Harry allowed his foot to creep an inch closer to Draco’s. “Maybe I like my tea bitter,” he argued with a smirk.

Draco huffed at him.

“Fine,” Harry said, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’ve never really liked that tea. That’s why it was all the way in the back of the cabinet. _You’re_ the one who dragged it out. But honestly, Draco, you’ve ruined all non-Novelle teas for me.” Draco barked a laugh and Harry wanted to pump his fist in victory. “I’m going to shop exclusively from you from now on.”

“That’s sensible of you,” Draco said, mild tone at war with the pleased flush of his cheeks.

“I thought so,” Harry agreed with a smile. He unbent his knee and let his foot rest companionably against Draco’s.

Draco glanced up into the swaying tree branches. He took a deep breath before looking straight at Harry. “I apologize for my behavior earlier,” he said. He had gone stiff again, like when Hermione had first arrived, but the words were earnest. He blanched, then continued forlornly. “Granger must have been mortified.” 

Harry shook his head. “It’s ok if you’re scared,” he attempted. He wasn’t sure if that was the problem, but it seemed a reasonable place to start. “No one’s going to force you to apparate.”

“It’s not that, Potter.”

“What is it then?”

Draco sighed and pulled his knees into his chest. “I _can’t_ apparate.”

“Oh.” Harry was a little surprised, but it wasn’t like that was something to be embarrassed about. Plenty of wizards didn’t apparate. “Well, you’re not missing much,” he confided, “even if you never want to learn after all this. I kind of hate it.”

“No, that’s not –” Draco shook his head. He twisted a hand into his hair in frustration. “Potter, I know you are about as observant as a peppermint humbug, but _surely_ it has not escaped your notice that I have not performed _a single spell_ in all the time we’ve been –” Draco chewed his lip for a moment, then finished crossly – “whatever it is we’ve been doing.” He arched one regal brow, but the gesture could not hide the sadness clouding his eyes.

“No,” Harry said carefully, “I noticed. I figured it had to do with your tea making process, keeping it pure, like.”

Draco stared at him incredulously. “And in my flat?” he asked, practically spitting. His voice hardened with every word. “When I’m bleeding or cooking or shivering with cold? When I can’t even unlock my own bloody door?”

“Er –”

The anger left Draco as quickly as it had come. He seemed to deflate, curling into himself until his chin rested against his knees. “I can’t do magic, Potter. I’m not allowed.”

Harry felt sick to his stomach. “What?” he cried. “For how long?”

Draco’s mouth was a flat line of despair. “Seven years,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Oh, Draco,” Harry gasped, alarmed when he felt tears pricking at his own eyes. “No, that’s – that’s not right.”

Draco opened his eyes and shrugged, the pain seeming to flow from him as easily as his anger had. “Better than Azkaban. And there’s a poetic sort of justice to it, I suppose.” He unfolded from himself, stretching out to lean back on his hands. “Seven years studying to be a wizard, seven years learning how not to be one.” The words were more wistful than bitter.

The beginnings of rage bubbled in Harry’s guts, though he wasn’t sure whether to direct it at the Ministry or himself. He’d spoken on Draco’s behalf at the trials, made sure he wouldn’t end up in Azkaban in punishment for being traumatized and manipulated into his childhood mistakes. Harry knew that Draco had done wrong, but he had seen enough during the war to know that the children of Death Eaters had had no good choices. 

When Draco had been acquitted, Harry thought he’d done enough. He’d never thought to question what restrictions the Ministry might impose as payment for their leniency. That now seemed shockingly naïve, and Harry almost crumpled beneath a sudden onslaught of guilt.

Harry dug his fingers into the rocky soil in an attempt to ground himself. An explosion of temper would not help Draco.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” Harry said, not knowing what else to offer him.

Draco shrugged again. “I deserve worse.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” Draco lay down in the grass and folded his hands neatly atop his stomach. “In a way, this apparition problem is the most exciting thing that has happened to me in a long time,” he said softly. “It reminds me my magic is still there, waiting.”

“Of course it is,” Harry said. He scooted closer until he was hovering over Draco. He hesitated, but then trailed his fingers along Draco’s cheek. “You’re still a wizard, Draco.”

“Am I?” Draco sighed.

“Yes.” Harry said firmly. Acting purely on instinct, he plucked a vibrant blue flower from the weeds beside them and tucked it into the pocket of Draco’s white dress shirt. “And I’m glad we’re friends.”

“Oh, so we’re friends now, Potter?” Draco drawled. “How unfortunate for me.” 

Harry crossed his arms and stared beseechingly down at Draco.

Draco ignored the look, but he traced a fingertip along the petals of the flower with a tiny smile.


	9. a sign from the universe

“What are you up to today?” Maeve asked, poking her head around the doorframe of Draco’s workshop. Bright pink earrings shaped like Pygmy Puffs dangled almost all the way to her collar.

Draco shook his head, but he was smiling. A garish accessory like that should have looked ridiculous on a woman as old as Maeve, but she somehow managed to turn it into a dignified (if eccentric) fashion statement.

“The dehydrator is at maximum capacity,” he answered, “so I’m actually free at the moment. I’ll have everything restocked for you tomorrow though.”

Maeve wrestled a few tins of tea from the shelves by his door before shuffling fully into the room. “You’re free?” she said skeptically. “You looked pretty absorbed in those notes just now. You were chewing on that pen cap, you know.” She shot a wicked grin at him. “And _humming.”_

Bristling, Draco hastily swept his scattered notes and several Muggle pens into his desk drawer. “How long were you standing there?” he said, narrowing his eyes.

“Oh, a good ten minutes, I’d say,” Maeve said. “I had a leisurely poke around our discontinued stock, waiting for baking inspiration to strike!”

“And has it?” Draco asked smoothly, aiming to sidetrack her. (Merlin, had he really been _humming?)_ “Struck?”

“Well, of course it has, Draco!” She planted her hands on her hips, not even fumbling the tea tins, and gave him a reproachful stare. “Honestly! Has it _struck,_ he asks! I would hardly be standing here lollygagging if it hadn’t, now would I? I’m a _professional.”_

“Of course,” Draco murmured, tone appropriately repentant, even as his eyes flashed in amusement. 

Maeve winked at him. “The point is, I was bustling about, rattling things around, making all sorts of noise, and you didn’t look up once.” She seemed mildly exasperated by this. “What on earth were you doing?”

That surprised Draco. He often became lost in his work, but his focus had never been ironclad enough to shut out _Maeve,_ especially when she was on the hunt for his company and chose to make a nuisance of herself in the stockroom until he emerged. 

Taken aback, he replied without thinking. “I was working through various formulas to determine the effect anti-inflammatory ingredients would have on the brewing of Deflating Draughts.” 

Maeve seemed to grow taller at that, a rosebud pricking up its petals to catch the first raindrops after a period of drought. A smile bloomed across her face, suffused with a hope that cut Draco to the bone. Cursing his tongue, he looked away before she started to glow.

“It’s all strictly theoretical, of course,” he added, a futile attempt at damage control.

“Huh,” Maeve said casually. “I’m not sure that would work.”

Draco crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows at her. The blatant attempt to bait him was unworthy of a response. But Maeve ignored his posturing.

“We can test it, if you’d like,” she offered, tone still carefully neutral. “Sounds like a fine way to spend the afternoon.”

“What about your baking inspiration?”

“It’ll keep.” Maeve tossed her head unconcernedly. The Pygmy Puffs ricocheted back and forth, as if they were laughing at Draco. “You have me intrigued. And you know I’ve always wanted to see you brew.”

“I’m afraid tea is all I’ll be brewing, for the moment,” he said firmly. “Magical theory is simply a way to pass the time.”

“You know it’s more than that for you, Draco,” Maeve tutted, something akin to pity dampening the gleam that had sparked in her eyes. 

Draco longed for her sternness. Sympathy was more than he could bear.

“Maeve, I can’t –” He twisted his head away. “You said you wouldn’t do this anymore. You _promised.”_ His voice was a whisper, the last word as brittle as aged parchment.

In the year he had worked for her, Maeve had made no secret of her disdain for the Ministry’s treatment of Draco, and she took every opportunity to assure him it was wrong. Draco did not know what she was trying to accomplish with the pointed remarks and tiny temptations. She certainly did not want him in trouble with the Aurors, and Draco was sure she would have stopped him, had he ever picked up a wand.

No, it was the little things she chased after, the seeming loopholes in his restrictions. The oaths he had sworn made no mention of healing spells, or Potions – or owl post, broomsticks, and floo travel, for that matter. So perhaps Maeve simply meant for him to stretch a bit, expand enough to hit the edges of the boundaries imposed upon him. Perhaps she simply wanted him to _want_ – to bloody his knuckles against the borders, chafe at his restraints – just enough to remember that magic was part of who he was.

But to Draco, the distinction was meaningless. If magic was forbidden, then it was forbidden. And so, he abstained from it all.

There was nothing to be gained from these small, petty rebellions. Draco had done wrong, had had a hand in spreading the evils of the war, had proven that he was not to be trusted with magic. His punishment was justified, whatever Maeve had to say about it… even if Harry Potter seemed to agree with her.

The thought of sitting with Harry in the garden – Harry’s eyes beautiful and insistent as he told Draco _that’s not right_ and _you’re still a wizard_ and, most shocking of all, _I’m glad we’re friends_ – tore through Draco like a violent wind. Heat and shame, confusion and desire, swirled like eddies in his blood. 

A harsh clattering sound made Draco jump, startling him from his feverish reverie. Across the room, Maeve had dumped the tea tins onto the lab table. She stood there for a moment, knuckles white where she gripped one of the chairs. She dragged it toward Draco, its legs leaving little trails through the weave of the rug. Another grating clang as Maeve slammed the chair down behind Draco’s desk, and then she was sitting beside him, frowning into his eyes.

Draco hunched his shoulders, nails biting into his skin where he gripped his elbows. 

For all that he had accepted living without magic, it still hurt. The last time Maeve had really pushed him, a few months ago now, Draco had burst into tears. Gasping in panicky breaths, he’d sobbed that he couldn’t do it anymore, couldn’t take it, couldn’t live constantly fighting against what he’d been forced to become. 

It had been a nearly incoherent stream of shudders and words, but Maeve had somehow understood. She had accepted that her machinations were harming more than helping, and finally agreed to leave well enough alone.

Maeve must have been remembering that day too, because all at once, the fight went out of her. She clucked her tongue and wrapped an arm around Draco. He melted into her, head resting on her shoulder. 

“You’re right,” she said softly, stroking his hair. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok,” he breathed.

Draco did not understand how he could feel so protected and cared for, so _mothered,_ and yet at the same time miss his own mother so intensely that his skin actually burned. He thumbed at his ring and sighed.

Maeve kissed the top of his head and released him. “Come on, love. I could use your help with the baking today.”

As they were leaving the room, Maeve paused to examine a blue wildflower in a clay pot on the windowsill. The sun hit it just so, and the petals appeared velvety in the afternoon light.

“Well, isn’t this lovely!” she gushed.

“Yes,” Draco said, as his heart swelled. “It really is.”

***

Two hours later, Draco was elbow deep in four different kinds of dough. He could not quite pinpoint how Maeve’s impromptu baking lesson had transfigured into his own rather frazzled attempt to create biscuits flavored with various Novelle teas, but there was nothing for it now. He’d make a proper baked good out of his tea blends or he would die trying.

Well, perhaps _die_ was a touch dramatic. More likely he’d throw down the spatula and pout. Though he was sure Maeve would sweep in and rescue him before anything got that dire. She was busying herself cleaning crumbs out of the display cases, but Draco was not fooled. Maeve may not be looking at him, but she didn’t miss a trick in this kitchen. Draco’s scalp prickled under the intensity of her attention, as she observed and weighed every twitch of his fingers.

When they’d first emerged from Draco’s workshop, Maeve had asked him to choose anything he would like to bake. 

“But what about your inspiration?” he asked.

 _“You_ are my inspiration, love.”

Mouth a stubborn line, Draco had begun to protest. She had already apologized; there was no need to treat him like a fragile child. But then Maeve chucked him under the chin, her calloused touch so familiar and comforting that Draco had surrendered without deciding to. 

“The autumn shortbread, please,” he said, and Maeve had gone hunting for the candied orange peel without another word.

Draco’s responsibilities in Maeve’s kitchen had never evolved much past those of a spectator. He would sit on a stool and keep her company, fetch hard to reach equipment, clean up spills, and of course, sample anything she put in front of him. On particularly hectic days, he would chop up blocks of chocolate or perhaps stir things when Maeve’s hands were occupied with another dough or batter.

Today had been different. 

From the start, Maeve had centered the baking around Draco, relegating herself to a supporting role. He’d balked at first, insisting that he was not a baker, but Maeve was having none of it.

“Don’t you play coy with me, Draco Malfoy,” she’d barked, shockingly commanding for someone who was busy tying a flowered pink scarf around her hair. “I’m not some flutter-brained girl child you can confound with your posh manners and polite refusals. I am well aware that you know your way around a kitchen and it’s about time you had some say in this one. Now roll up your sleeves and get your hands in that butter!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Draco grumbled, but the both of them were smiling, and by the time Maeve had her hands over his, expertly demonstrating the best way to hold the spatula and just the right amount of pressure to use on the dough, Draco was too absorbed to even pretend to be cross. To be receptacle to Maeve’s eight decades of knowledge was a beautiful and wonderous thing.

While the shortbread was baking, she had talked to him about scones and breads, kneading and rising, the advantages and disadvantages of eschewing a proving drawer for charms. With Maeve’s voice washing over him, soothing as a babbling brook, Draco had breathed in the aroma of chocolate and cloves that was slowly overtaking the air, perfectly content as his fingers shaped scone after scone. They were messy at first, but after some sharp corrections by Maeve (and a few painful raps on the wrists), he had found his rhythm, and Maeve’s eyes were glowing with pride by the time he had finished. 

And perhaps it had been that pride that spurred Draco on, a benign Hinkypunk luring Draco into experimenting further, its lantern the glowing thought of pleasing Maeve with a biscuit recipe of his own invention.

Draco poked at the dough in front of him, wondering whether caramel or butterscotch would best bring out the smoky richness of Novelle’s signature black tea. Maeve sidled up next to him before he could decide. She peered skeptically at the finely ground tea leaves that speckled the dough. 

“How’s your not-exactly friend?” she asked, scooping out a taste with her finger.

“Harry?” Draco asked, mind still meandering through an array of flavors.

He fumbled the spoon when he realized what he’d said, fingers grown clumsy with fear at how easily the name came to his lips.

But why should he be afraid? Harry had been calling him Draco for weeks now. 

They were well and truly tangled up in this thing, and the taste of Harry’s name on his tongue could hardly make the inevitable loss any _worse._ Draco was fucked already; he might as well take what pleasure he could before something came between them. _I’m glad we’re friends_ echoed in Draco’s ears again, and this time he embraced the warmth that shuddered through him.

“Yes, Harry!” Maeve exclaimed. She had been chewing thoughtfully on Draco’s dough, and now she was perusing the spice rack, touch lingering on and then rejecting one glass container after another. “I thought we might be seeing more of him around here. He seemed quite enamored –”

Maeve paused meaningfully, and Draco shoved his hands into the dough, heart seeming to leap into his throat.

“– with your lightning tea,” she finished, returning to his side with the container of ginger. She handed it to him, taking in his pinked cheeks with a wide-eyed look of innocence, but Draco could read the mischief in every line of her stout frame.

“Yes, well –” he wiped the excess dough from his hands before accepting the ginger and sprinkling some into the bowl – “he always did like treacle.” 

“Well, where has he been?” Maeve demanded, pausing to nod approvingly when Draco tasted a spoonful of dough and started muttering about a glaze. “You tell him I’ve got treacle tarts with his name on them.”

“Next time I see him, I will,” he promised, beginning to roll out his biscuits.

“And when will that be exactly?”

“Merlin’s beard, Maeve!” Draco cried, dropping a rather promising looking biscuit onto the floor. He glowered at her as he swiped it up and threw it into the trash. “What is this? The Wizengamot?”

“I just liked the looks of him, is all,” Maeve said. She bustled around him to fetch their scones out of the oven. The shortbread was already cooling on the counter.

“I imagine I’ll see him quite soon,” Draco admitted. The repetitive motions of forming the biscuits helped to keep his breathing calm. “We’re having a bit of trouble, with some sort of bond or life-debt. We’re not quite sure what it is, actually, but it seems to be forcing us to apparate to each other’s sides whenever one of us needs something.”

“A life-debt?” Maeve settled herself on a stool and studied him with unabashed interest, looking for all the world as if she were listening to some sordid romance program on the wireless. “How intriguing.”

“As I said –” Draco popped the biscuits in the oven, snapping it closed a little harder than necessary – “that might not be it. We’re still researching.”

“Maybe you should stop,” Maeve mused.

Draco looked up from washing his hands. “Stop what? Researching?”

“Mhmm.”

“What?” he exclaimed, grabbing a towel. “Why?”

“It seems to me that you should just – let it happen.” Maeve waved a hand in the air lackadaisically, then stood and began to move Draco’s other doughs into the fridge. “It might very well be a sign from the universe, and when the universe is giving you signs, you should listen.”

“It is not a _sign_ from the _universe!”_ Draco threw up his hands in exasperation. “It is a tricky bit of magic that has probably gone wrong somehow and I am going to unravel it, because magical theory is what I _do.”_

Maeve came over all smug at that, as the statement was dangerously close to what she’d been trying to get him to admit back in his workshop. Draco ignored her and grumpily transferred the shortbread and scones into the permanent preservation charms of their display case. He kept a piece of shortbread out for himself and took a huge bite. The hint of clove tempered the bright bursts of citrus, and Draco closed his eyes to savor it. The autumn shortbread never failed to make him feel as though he was sitting in front of a woodland fire, blissfully hot, even as a crisp wind rattled through the dying leaves.

“Why are you and Harry ‘not-exactly’ old friends?” Maeve interrupted suddenly, and Draco’s imaginary bonfire winked out. 

He opened his eyes with a sigh. “We didn’t get along, back in school.” He broke off another chunk of shortbread and chewed it slowly before he continued. “It was my fault, really. I was not – kind, as a child.”

Maeve snorted, then gave him a fond smile as she ruffled his hair. “But the two of you are friends now?”

Heart pounding, Draco offered her a piece of shortbread and did not answer.

“Maybe – more than friends?” Maeve suggested shrewdly.

Draco’s stomach seemed to twist inside out. He struggled to swallow a mouthful of shortbread that had turned to dust. The tinkling bells of the door rang suddenly through the shop, and Draco thought he had never been more grateful for anything in his entire life.

He quickly swept crumbs off the counter and began to line up cups and small plates in preparation for the late afternoon rush. But Maeve took them right out of his hands and nudged him toward the register.

Draco shot her a betrayed look – she knew quite well that customers made him nervous (you never knew when someone would object to being served by a former Death Eater, after all) – but she just huffed a laugh at him and set the kettles to boiling.

And that was how Draco found himself managing the tea shop, taking the lead for the very first time. 

Maeve was a constant presence at his back, pouring cups of tea, plating biscuits and pastries, delivering orders to the tables with a smile. But all her usual magic – recommending just the right blend to an indecisive customer, choosing the perfect scone to complement a tea, clucking sympathetically as someone bemoaned a miserable day – she left to Draco.

He was stiff at first, too formal. But then came a charming witch in a sparkling cloak, inquiring politely about different teas with a slight French accent that reminded Draco of his mother. She was effervescent, bubbling over with a wellspring of inner joy. Draco served her a crisp, herbal tea paired with spongy cake full to bursting with strawberries and cream. Her parting grin was so delighted, and so genuine, that Draco found himself stunned.

He liked this, he realized. He liked doing this.

He had always thought Maeve’s talents lay within her sharply discerning palette and masterful knowledge of flavor profiles. But that’s not how she did it at all. It wasn’t about which pastry went with each tea. It was about reading the person, and knowing which taste was right for them, spiriting them away with a tea and a sweet that would bolster them, chosen exactly to match this specific moment. 

Draco smiled at the next customer, and set about finding the right confection to match this stranger’s heart.

***

Maeve waved her wand lazily, spelling the door shut. Planting her fists in the small of her back, she arched and stretched. Draco finished wiping down the tables and smiled at her uncertainly.

“Thank you for your help today, love,” Maeve said, seeming as always to know exactly what Draco needed. “You were wonderful.”

Her reassurance warmed him, stifling the last remnants of his self-consciousness, confirming that he had not let her down.

“Maeve?” he asked, suddenly feeling brave. “Do you think it would be alright if I used some floo powder? There’s a call I should have made days ago.”

Maeve drew the blinds before answering. She knew what he was really asking, knew that the question was more than simple courtesy. 

“Anyone can use floo powder, Draco,” she said at last, moving to stand beside him. “Even a Muggle. The spell is self-contained, and of no danger to anyone.”

Draco tugged nervously at his collar. Maeve tsked at him, then smoothed his tie with careful fingers. “Go on,” she gave him a little nudge toward the fireplace. “Jar’s on the mantle.”

Once Maeve had disappeared through the archway that led to her upstairs flat, Draco knelt in front of the fire. Steeling his spine, he threw in a fistful of the powder and stuck his head into the green flames to make the call.

When Draco’s vision cleared, a small kitchen with pale blue walls materialized in front of him. The remnants of dinner crowded the stove and dishes were clustered by the sink, but otherwise the room was tidy. At the round wooden table, a sheaf of parchment in front of him and a steaming mug at his elbow, sat Ron Weasley.

Draco cleared his throat awkwardly and Weasley looked up. He snorted and set down his quill, expression significantly less surprised than Draco had expected.

“Hello, Weasley,” he said tentatively, discomfited by the other man’s apparent ease.

Weasley nodded at him, more polite than not, and Draco didn’t know what to do with that either. He gripped his knees tightly and soldiered on.

“I apologize for calling unannounced, but I was hoping to speak to Granger, if she’s amenable.”

Weasley stared back at him implacably, but there was the slightest trace of amusement in his face. Draco was rapidly losing his nerve and was contemplating ending the call when Weasley nodded again. 

“Right, hang on,” he said, before ambling from the room.

A moment later, Granger hurried in.

“Draco!” she cried, pulling a chair right up to the fire and throwing herself into it. “Is everything alright? Has something happened?”

“No,” Draco assured her, almost staggering under the force of her alarm. “No, nothing like that. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.” Granger’s posture relaxed enough that Draco felt able to continue. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior the other day.”

“Oh?” Granger raised her eyebrows expectantly.

“I know it’s been over a year, and I _have_ gotten used to it, it’s just – hard for me still, to explain it to people, and so I panicked.” Draco was twisting his shirt tails into knots, dampening them in sweaty palms. Even though Granger couldn’t see his hands through the fire, he forced himself to stop. “But I had no cause to storm off like that, or to speak so insultingly to you, especially when you were being so kind and when you’re going out of your way to help us.” He met her eyes earnestly. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, Draco. I appreciate that.” Granger fingered the gold necklace she was wearing. “But I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean. What’s hard for you to explain?”

“Oh, you don’t –” Draco floundered. Suddenly, he felt unable to look at her. “I assumed Har – I assumed Potter would have told you.”

Granger frowned at that. “I don’t think Harry would break your confidence so lightly,” she said, as if trying to comfort him.

“Oh,” Draco breathed.

There was a long, painful silence.

“Well. I – well, fuck.” The moment the word was out, Draco gasped, horrified with himself. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Granger laughed, the sound as airy and joyful as butterfly wings.

“I’m not allowed to do magic,” Draco blurted. All at once, the words poured from him, spilling from his mouth to skitter about the room, running every which way like beetles he couldn’t catch in time to squash. “For seven years. In punishment for my actions during the war. A probation, of sorts. Which I fully deserve. And accept. I just – find it hard to speak about. As I said before. That’s why I –” he gulped – “well, you remember.”

“How do they restrict you?” Granger scuffed her chair closer and leaned forward until her nose was almost touching the fire. There was an eager gleam in her eyes. “Are you physically incapable, or –” She clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh Merlin, Draco, I’m so sorry – I didn’t mean to be insensitive! I was just thinking about the apparition, and what if whatever they did to you is interacting with the bond or life-debt, and well, I just got ahead of myself.” She flapped her hands a bit pathetically, then tucked them into her lap. “I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “You don’t have to answer.”

Draco was stunned. He blinked at her before saying, slowly and deliberately, “I hardly think you, of all people, owe me any kind of apology about anything.”

Granger considered that, her eyes hardening for the space of a single breath. Then she nodded, accepting the truth of his words. The past flickered between them, acknowledged before being set aside. Draco felt his respect for her grow.

“I don’t mind answering,” he said, well aware that knowledge was the best apology he could offer her. “I am still physically capable of performing magic. There is a stipulation in the terms, that allows me to cast spells in emergency or life-threatening situations.” He paused and smiled wryly. “Though my actions in such an event would be subject to a rigorous review.” 

Granger scoffed at that, though not unkindly. She seemed to be directing her ire at the Ministry, rather than at him. Draco supposed he should have expected nothing less from one of Harry’s friends. Gryffindors, noble to a fault. 

“How does it work then?” Granger asked.

“I have an advanced form of the trace on me, that notifies the proper Ministry officials if I use magic. I was worried at first, that I would be in trouble for the apparition. But no one has shown up to arrest me, so whatever is happening, it does not register as me performing magic.”

“Fascinating,” Granger whispered, tapping a finger against her lips. “I mean, if they’re not suppressing you in some way, then there probably isn’t any kind of magical interference happening, but it’s still good to know that the apparition doesn’t show up on the trace. I’m not sure what that means yet, but it must mean _something.”_

“I had not considered that before,” Draco said, nodding slowly. “I’ll keep it in mind while researching. Thank you, Granger.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “I think we’re past that, Draco.”

When he thought about it, Draco found that he agreed with her. And he was hardly surprised at all. 

“Thank you,” he repeated. “Hermione.”


	10. lonely, not for her

Harry flung himself onto his sofa, and for a full minute, he was entirely, blissfully content.

The windows were thrown wide, admitting a breeze with the first teasing bite of autumn, the midday sun warmed his face, and a hot bath had left him languid, muscles relaxed and sweetly aching with just the right amount of post-training soreness. Nothing could be better.

Except…

It was only one o’clock, and Harry had nothing to do with the rest of his day. The cottage was clean, the fridge was packed with Molly’s Sunday leftovers, he’d already plowed through his new mystery novels, and he couldn’t think of anything else to build. The spice rack, mug shelf, and a series of intricate wooden picture frames had rather exhausted his creative wells, at least for now.

Most of his weekday afternoons were spent at the kickboxing club, but Will had had some sort of conflict today, so Harry had met him in the early morning instead. Bleary-eyed and sluggish, Harry had been no match for Will at first, but after about an hour of his arse repeatedly hitting the mat, Harry had finally recovered from his sleepy daze and started getting in some hits of his own.

Will had really pushed him after that. Harry’s stamina was excellent, but his speed and accuracy still needed a lot of work, and Will was a rigorous trainer.

By the time Harry met Lavender for their daily bout, he was too worn out to pose much of a challenge. She was used to fighting him fresh, and the full moon was less than a week away, which always made her stronger. He managed to hold her at bay for a good forty minutes though, so he accepted his defeat with good grace, even though she crowed a bit.

Harry had been sharing morning duels with Lavender for about five months now, ever since they stumbled across each other at a dueling club in East London. The building was a bit rundown, and every once in a while a mildly shady character would wander in, but it had good equipment and a discreet proprietor. None of the other members bothered with Harry or Lavender, and never once had they been discovered by the vultures who worked for the Daily Prophet. Peeling walls and witnessing the occasional illicit activity was a small price to pay.

Finding Lavender such an enthusiastic dueling partner had surprised Harry at first, but the shock had quickly faded. She had fought in the war too, after all, and she seemed to need the dueling club for the same reasons Harry did. Dueling was an outlet; it swallowed the aggressions and quicksilver reflexes the war had bred in them, the thirst for action that had not been quenched with Voldemort’s defeat. For an hour every morning they could lash out, fight and strike and stumble and curse, all without the world being at stake.

It kept Harry sharp, invigorated him while quieting his mind, and it did not exact the steep price of actual war. No violence, no uncertainty; just physical challenge and a slowly dawning peace. He was grateful for it, and grateful for Lavender, despite the fact that on days like this, when the empty hours stretched out before him, it didn’t feel like quite _enough._

Not that he knew what would be enough.

Harry tucked his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, thoughts straying, perhaps inevitably, to Draco.

Draco was never far from Harry’s mind these days, hadn’t been even before Hermione had turned Harry upside down.

Or maybe she had turned him right side up.

It was like Harry had been studying an abstract painting, unable to make sense of the swirls of color. But then Hermione had reached out and inverted the frame, and suddenly the distorted image came together before Harry’s eyes, distinct shapes that had lingered unseen, waiting to unveil and dance for him, if only he would actually look. 

In the garden that day, listening to Draco’s shames and secrets, Harry had looked. And he had found a pathway of desire that stretched back through all their years of schoolboy taunts and grudges.

Yes, Harry had always been distracted by Draco Malfoy. 

At the beginning, that distraction had been fueled by anger and resentment, a hot and bitter thing, the frustrations of being targeted and bullied without understanding _why._ By the end of the war, it had become something softer. The question of Draco Malfoy yielding sharp and frightening answers, an understanding that bred pity, the righteous need to protect the broken boy who had once loomed invincible. 

And now, the distraction ran deeper, transforming a desire to understand into a desire to _know,_ in increasingly intimate ways. Harry wanted more of Draco’s secrets, wanted to stare into his eyes and taste him, soul and skin and mind.

Harry shivered. His hand had found its way down his body, a promising weight where it rested against his hardening cock. Slowly, Harry moved his hand away, sitting up with a steadying breath. It was too much, too soon. 

In this moment, he did not crave release. What he needed was both less and more. 

He wanted Draco’s voice, his teasing drawl, the stubborn arch of his eyebrows. He wanted meals disguised as potions and taut silences and strands of blond hair whipping in the breeze. 

It was not something Harry had ever expected to want. And perhaps that’s why he had needed Hermione’s help to see it.

Harry had had something good with Ginny – companionship and comfort and admittedly brilliant sex. But in the end, it had not been enough. Not enough for her, certainly, as she had tried to explain, oh so gently, on the day she left. But Harry knew now that it was not enough for him either.

Draco Malfoy though? Draco, with his sharp beauty and sharper intellect, with his tea and strange reticence and those dangerously soft eyes? Harry was beginning to suspect that Draco Malfoy would be more than enough, even if all Draco ever gave him was friendship.

It was a different kind of enough, than the one Harry tried and failed to find with dueling. But it was just as important.

Harry hauled himself off the sofa, flipping through various possibilities in his mind. He could trip over something, fall to the floor. Or go out to the garden. Taming the weeds was surely more than a one-man job. 

_But Draco liked the weeds._

Break something, then? Or knock something over? Make a mess? Cook a giant meal, more than he could possibly eat?

Abruptly, Harry laughed, and the sound echoed through the empty cottage. He was being ridiculous. Why try to trick the life-debt/bond thing? He didn’t need unconscious apparition. He knew where Draco was.

Shaking his head at himself, blood thrumming with an intoxicating mix of anticipation and nerves, Harry grabbed a light hoodie from the closet and strode out the door.

***

Seeing the cluttered walls and bright colors of Novelle Teas felt bizarrely like coming home. Harry closed his eyes for one deep breath of chocolate and tea leaves, and muscles he didn’t even know were tight suddenly released. Sighing in startled relief, Harry wove his way through the tables and armchairs, only a few occupied, to approach the main counter.

“Be with you in just a moment, dear,” Maeve called from where she was poking at something in the oven. A nutty, almost spicy scent wafted out.

Harry perused the sweets on offer in the glass-fronted display case, until the sample table caught his eye. Small glass cannisters of tea sat in neat rows, labeled in a delicate, spiky hand that Harry somehow knew belonged to Draco. Smiling, Harry fingered one that looked quite familiar. _Enmity Forsworn,_ he read, as he brought it to his nose to smell the bright bursts of cherry. He remembered the red juice staining his fingers, the still air of the workshop, the caution in Draco’s eyes. The tea’s name both amused and pained him.

A shadow fell over the table, and Harry turned to see Maeve’s merry face beaming up at him.

“I’m glad to see you’ve learned to use the door,” she said, “like a proper customer. Last time, I thought you were some sort of deranged burglar!”

“I would never dare burgle from you!” Harry protested, laughing. Somehow, he felt as though he’d known Maeve for far longer than he actually had. “Hello, Maeve,” he added. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

“I expected you much sooner, young man,” Maeve scolded, but her eyes were still twinkling. “Now come over here and have some of the treacle tart that’s waiting for you.”

Harry let her bustle him behind the counter and settle him atop a tall stool. Before he could blink, there was steaming cup of tea and a plate of miniature tarts in front of him.

“Thank you,” Harry said. “Treacle’s my favorite.”

Maeve smiled smugly. “I know.”

Bewildered, Harry stared down at his plate. He was sure there was some article somewhere, if not more than one, that detailed the food preferences of “the chosen one,” but Maeve hadn’t seemed the type to go in for all that Harry Potter savior nonsense. He had liked that about her, and the idea of her reading up on him after their last meeting didn’t sit well with him.

Unless… could Draco have told her? Harry felt a bit dizzy with the possibility.

“I suppose you’re here to see Draco?” Maeve asked, nudging the plate closer to Harry.

“Yeah, I wanted to invite him to lunch,” Harry said, absently taking a bite of tart. “Only if you can spare him, of course,” he added hastily, as soon as he had swallowed.

“That’s a wonderful idea!” Maeve enthused. “You finish your tea and then you can go right on back. I have a strict policy about Draco’s friends. No visits without a nice cup of tea first.”

“Why not?” Harry asked, after taking a gulp of his tea. It was smooth and robust, a cleaner flavor than any black tea he had ever tasted. He’d have to buy a tin of this for mornings at home.

Maeve looked scandalized. “Well, somebody has to teach that boy some manners! Tea before business,” she sniffed. “It’s only right.”

Harry chuckled, not at all convinced that someone as posh as Draco needed to be schooled in manners. But he finished his tea and tarts obediently and showered Maeve with compliments before heading to Draco’s workshop.

***

“So what is this about, Potter?” Draco asked, once the two of them were tucked away in the corner of a nondescript pub. His eyes roamed over the other customers warily, but he was slowly loosening. He looked almost cheerful as he lounged against the scuffed vinyl of the booth.

Draco had tried to say no, when Harry had knocked on the doorframe and asked him to lunch. He startled violently at Harry’s voice, then tried to hide it by crossly informing him that he was far too busy to go gallivanting off at this hour of the afternoon.

“It isn’t even lunch time, Potter,” he’d complained, as prickly as ever.

But then he had glanced at the windowsill. It was a small movement, eyes darting back to his desk almost instantly, but Harry had followed his gaze. And there was the blue wildflower from Harry’s garden, carefully transplanted into a pot of fresh soil and positioned to catch the light of the sun.

A smile spread across Harry’s face, slow and sweet as honey. “Come to lunch, Draco,” he said. “Please?”

Draco blushed, and then surrendered, stammering out his agreement only a heartbeat before Maeve burst in, snatched up his papers, and harried them both out the door.

Harry had dragged a faintly protesting Draco toward Diagon Alley, not because he had forgotten Draco’s avoidance of wizarding areas, but because the thought made him sad. The way Harry saw it, Draco’s self-imposed limits were a sort of inverse prison, and it was past time he broke out. Draco _was_ still a wizard, damn it, and Harry was going to prove it to him. If the public could get used to Harry Potter in their midst, then they could also adapt to the presence of a repentant Malfoy. 

True, a few heads had turned when they’d reached the main stretch of Diagon, but Harry had distracted Draco with questions about winter teas, and no one had actually bothered them. Draco spoke liltingly of mint and cinnamon, and he had relaxed a bit more with every step. 

Harry looked at Draco now, his cuffed shirtsleeves revealing just a hint of pale skin, and realized he wanted to burn to the ground any business that had ever made Draco feel unwelcome. Wincing internally, Harry shook off the irrational anger and shrugged at Draco. “I was hungry. Thought you might be too. Besides,” he added with a smirk, “you told me you wanted me to bother you at work.”

Draco snorted. “I believe I said _Maeve_ would want that.”

“Same thing,” Harry said, shrugging again.

“That is not even remotely the same thing.”

Harry blinked at him innocently, and then hid his smile behind his menu. Draco grumbled a bit, but settled in to pore over his own menu enthusiastically enough.

“I usually kickbox in the afternoons, but my trainer was busy,” Harry said, after they had both ordered. “I needed something to do, and –” he hesitated, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose – “I wanted to see you.”

Draco shifted in his seat, an expression Harry could not read flitting across his face.

“I remember you mentioning kickboxing,” Draco replied, eyes once again smooth grey pools. “You said it was like dueling?”

“Yeah, but all physical. You attack and defend with your body instead of magic. I joined a Muggle club in Brixton.”

Draco tilted his head, nose scrunching as if he was having trouble picturing it. “Do you like it better than dueling?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said slowly. “I haven’t really thought about it. It’s challenging, but in a different way.”

Draco looked interested, if still faintly puzzled.

“Maybe you could come watch me sometime?” Harry suggested, trying very hard to sound casual. He thought a second invitation, even a vague one, on the same day he asked Draco to lunch might be pushing it.

But Draco surprised him.

“Yes, I’d like that,” he agreed, with none of his usual fuss.

Feeling encouraged, Harry said, “I’ve been practicing dueling too, with Lavender Brown.”

“Is she well?” Draco asked. His voice was steady and his tone polite, but his fingers worried at the edge of the table. He must have brushed against something sticky, because he grimaced slightly and folded his hands into his lap.

“Yeah, she’s good,” Harry assured him, already regretting mentioning Lavender. 

Bringing up the former classmate who had been viciously mauled during the Battle of Hogwarts was probably not the best entry point for their first discussion about the war. 

But it was too late now, so Harry soldiered ahead. “Her recovery was rough, and she had a hard time at first, adapting to the full moons, but she’s doing a lot better now.”

“I’m glad,” Draco said. Whatever darkness had gripped him seemed to retreat, and the air between them grew less fraught.

“Are you still interested in becoming an Auror?” Draco asked. “Is that why you’re training with Lavender?”

Harry’s palms throbbed, an icy ache sweeping through his veins. “No!” he practically yelled, too loud in the small space. The people at the nearest table jumped, and one of them shot Harry an annoyed glare.

Draco didn’t seem to notice. His hand had inched across the table until it was almost touching Harry’s and his brow was furrowed in concern.

Harry mumbled a sheepish apology. When his heart slowed, he gave Draco a wry smile and continued. “No, definitely not. I think Lavender might want that, eventually, but I – I just can’t. I don’t want that kind of life anymore.”

“I understand.” Draco placed his hand atop Harry’s, giving him a reassuring squeeze before letting go. “Is there something you do want to do?”

“No.” Harry sighed, already missing the warmth of Draco’s touch. “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to decide on anything.”

Draco nodded. “Does that bother you?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, even though he knew it did. Frustrated with himself, he scuffed his trainers against the floor and sighed again.

Draco propped an elbow on the table and rested his chin in his palm, fingers drumming restlessly against his cheek. “I wonder if that might be what your nightmares are about,” he said, sounding a million miles away. “The blankness all around you? Almost boring, you said. Like you have nothing on which to focus your energy.”

Draco’s head snapped up, eyes refocusing on Harry. “Oh Merlin,” he gasped, face whitening in horror. “I am so sorry. I should not have said that. It is not at all my place to say that.”

“No,” Harry rasped, throat uncomfortably dry. “It’s – it’s ok.” He rubbed a shaky hand across his face. “I – was sort of thinking the same thing today. Not about the dream, I mean, or the blankness thing. But that does make sense. I was thinking that I need – something.” He swallowed hard. “Excuse me, I need the loo.”

Harry fled the table, neck burning. He felt Draco’s eyes on him right up until he rounded the corner and hurried out of sight.

When Harry finally emerged from the bathroom – embarrassed and somewhat baffled by his reaction, but refreshed by the cold water he had splashed on his face – it was to find Blaise Zabini hovering over their table, gesturing wildly as he spoke to Draco. Draco was shaking his head, but he looked amused.

Blaise broke off mid-sentence as Harry approached. 

Harry thought that a bit odd, but he smiled at him anyway. “Alright, Blaise?”

“Hello,” Blaise offered, nodding in Harry’s direction without making eye contact. “Right, must be off! Draco, I’ll drop by later this week.” He clapped Draco on the shoulder and was gone.

Frowning, Harry reclaimed his seat. The steaming plate of fish and chips that had arrived while he was gone suddenly looked less appealing. He popped a chip into his mouth forlornly.

Draco picked up his fork and knife, but hesitated before cutting into his brisket. “About before –”

“It’s fine,” Harry said, waving him off.

“You seem upset.” Draco poked dispiritedly at his food, then glanced up at Harry.

“No.” Harry shook his head. “I’m glad you said that. It’s probably something I need to think about. I just panicked for a second. Needed some air.”

Draco nodded slowly, and finally took a bite of potato. His eyes were still worried.

Harry laughed nervously. “It’s just – does Blaise have a problem with me? I mean, obviously we weren’t friends at school, but I always thought that was just about me and you –”

Draco dropped his fork. 

“Oh,” he breathed, eyes wide. “I – I assumed you knew.”

“Knew what?” Harry demanded.

“Well –” Draco set his knife down next to his fork and began to fidget with his cuffs. “Blaise – he’s dating your – he’s dating Ginevra. Ginny.”

“Er – what?” Harry said. He blinked rapidly, trying to stave off the sudden pressure behind his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Draco murmured, head bowed over the table.

Harry inhaled sharply. Draco had called him by his _name._ Deliberately. And not when Harry was half insensible on the ground, having fallen from a ladder. 

Nothing had ever sounded so sweet.

All at once, the iron fist that had been tightening around Harry’s heart shattered. He had already let go of Ginny. This was a phantom grief, as inconsequential as it was false.

Draco pressed an ankle to Harry’s. “I would have told you, had I known you were unaware. I only found out a few days ago, myself.”

“No, it’s ok. I –” Harry shook his head incredulously. Relief danced in the tips of his fingers. “I’m just surprised. It seems a bit fast, but –” he trailed off.

Draco nodded, then began to eat quietly, eyes trained on his plate. It felt like he was trying to give Harry space to process, looking away while Harry felt whatever he needed to feel. It was a tender thing, surprisingly kind, and Harry found himself once again overwhelmed by the complexities of Draco Malfoy.

Harry scooped up a mouthful of fish, perfectly flaky and tender. He crunched into it, relishing the harsh tang of vinegar. “It’s ok,” he said between bites. “Really. I’m fine.”

Draco wiped his fingers on his napkin and looked up at Harry with a sad smile. “Do you miss her?”

Harry shook his head. “No, not the way you mean.” He ate a few more chips, thoughtful. “I’m lonely sometimes,” he admitted, “but not for her. If that makes sense.”

“Yes, I think it does.”

Draco’s voice was not hollow, but in it, Harry heard the echo of empty rooms. He pictured Draco’s flat, small and worn and meticulously cared for, as isolating as Harry’s cottage.

“Blaise has a good heart,” Draco offered tentatively. “He will treat her well. I don’t know if that helps at all, but –”

Risking mental whiplash, Harry hauled his focus back to Ginny and Blaise. They weren’t what was worrying him, but he didn’t know how to explain that to Draco, and it was a good thing to hear anyway. He did want Ginny to be happy.

“It does help,” Harry said. “Thanks, Draco.”

The pub was filling up now, as the afternoon waned, the bar crowded with people grabbing a pint before heading home from work. Shouts of greeting and raucous laughter bounced from wall to wall. The chaos warmed Harry; it seemed to whirl around them without intruding, insulating rather than puncturing the cozy glow of being ensconced in a corner with Draco.

“So what does Blaise – er, do?” Harry asked.

Draco’s forehead wrinkled in distaste. “Some type of financial thing I will never understand. Heaps of money, arrogant clients, charity functions, that kind of thing.”

Perplexed, Harry chuckled softly. “I would have thought all that was second nature to you.”

“Hardly,” Draco scoffed, but he quickly sobered, expression turning grave. “Father used to rather despair of me, I’m afraid. He expected me to accompany him to Ministry functions, to forge advantageous connections with powerful wizards. Whereas I was happier hiding in corners, discussing obscure magical theory with impoverished academics.” He paused, shredding his uneaten bread roll to bits between his fingers. “He said I was a disgrace to the Malfoy name.”

Despite everything he knew about Lucius Malfoy, Harry was shocked. “That’s horrible.”

Draco looked up and seemed startled by Harry’s stricken expression. He brushed the bread crumbs from his hands with a sigh. “Yes, well – I could not imagine anything worse at the time, but now I find the idea rather comforting.”

Harry shook his head, wearing an emphatic frown. “A parent shouldn’t say that to their child.”

Draco hummed non-committedly. “Perhaps not.”

“Draco, I – I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me when it happened, but – I’m sorry your father died.”

Draco went still, the sudden tension framing his implacable stare. “You cannot possibly mean that.”

“I’m not sorry for him,” Harry said. “I’m sorry for you.”

“He was not a good man.”

“I’ve lost enough fathers to know it’s not that simple.”

Draco’s eyes flicked away, but not before Harry saw the shadow of pain that lingered there. There was a moment of silence. Draco pressed his thumb to his ring, then blew out a harsh breath and smoothed back his hair.

“So, what type of potion would you make out of this?” Harry asked, prodding at the remnants of the fried fish on his plate. 

Draco went soft around the edges, relief turning up the corners of his mouth. The question was a gift, Harry extending a hand, offering to pull Draco from the quicksand of the past, and the light in Draco’s eyes told Harry that Draco understood.

“Stamina,” came Draco’s offhand reply.

For a handful of heartbeats, Harry forgot to breathe.

“Oh really?” he smirked, the second he had recovered. He leaned closer to Draco. “Stamina for _what?”_

“Dueling,” Draco said, a tiny crease of confusion marring his brow. “And Muggle dueling, obviously. You’ve just told me that’s what you do all day.” He rolled his eyes fondly. “Do keep up, Potter.”

He sounded entirely matter-of-fact, not even a hint of teasing or suggestion in the words. Harry sighed and kicked him under the table. Draco yelped, then crossed his arms with a scowl.

Skin feeling hot and far too tight, Harry absently ran his hands up and down his thighs and ignored his yearning heart.


	11. a sale at the grocery

Draco had just gotten the main course in the oven when a sharp crack echoed through the flat. He jumped, startled despite having been desperately awaiting that exact sound for over an hour now.

There was a thud and a muffled curse, as if Potter had collided with a wall. He never did manage a graceful landing after one of the apparition incidents. Draco smiled at the thought, and then his heart began to pound. He hadn’t actually believed this was going to work.

“Draco?” Harry gasped.

Before Draco could turn, Harry bounded over to him and seized his shoulder.

“Are you ok?” he cried, spinning Draco around and looking him over with anxious eyes. His breath came in short, panicky bursts.

“I’m fine,” Draco said, raising an eyebrow.

Harry blushed and stepped back, dropping his hand from Draco’s shoulder. Draco felt a flash of guilt for worrying him.

“Sorry, I –” Harry grimaced. “Sorry I grabbed you. I just – the apparition thing, it usually means you’re hurt.”

“I’m not hurt,” Draco assured him.

“Good.” Harry rubbed the nape of his neck, still looking sheepish. “What do you need then?” He glanced around the room curiously, taking in the cluttered counter and the dishes overflowing the sink.

“I’m not sure,” Draco said, though that was somewhat disingenuous. He _had_ been deliberately focusing on needing a dinner guest, after all. He frowned, unnerved by how unpleasant it felt to even skirt the truth while speaking to Potter. He imagined his younger self laughing at him. The frown deepened.

“Sorry,” Harry said again, shying away from Draco’s fierce expression. “I can go.”

“No!” Heat bloomed across Draco’s cheekbones at the vehemence in his voice. He wiped sweaty palms on his trousers. “I mean, well – it seems I got a bit carried away with dinner. There is far too much for just myself. Would you – care to stay?”

“Too much food, huh?” The corner of Harry’s mouth quirked up.

“Yes. There was a sale,” Draco said. “At the grocery.”

Harry burst into laughter, and Draco bristled. Shoulders stiff, he picked up a large knife to chop the celery. “What’s so funny, Potter?”

“Nothing,” Harry said, still chuckling. “It’s just, the other day I – nothing, never mind.” His tongue darted out to wet his lips and Draco had to look away. 

“You want me to stay?” Harry asked.

“Yes. You bought me lunch on Friday, and I wished to reciprocate.” Draco’s fingers slipped on the knife when he realized his error. “Now that I have this unexpected opportunity to do so, that is,” he added breezily, sweeping the celery into the pot with a practiced nonchalance.

“Unexpected,” Harry echoed. “Right.” He drew out the word, but he was grinning broadly.

Draco had never seen someone look so deliriously happy while sounding so skeptical. It was unsettling. He blinked and refocused on seasoning the celery. He was reaching for an onion when Harry sidled up next to him.

“Can I help?”

Draco glanced up at Harry, offering him a soft smile. “You’re staying then?”

“Only if it’s poisoned.” Harry winked, and Draco’s mouth went dry.

“Well, obviously,” he managed a moment later. Thankfully, the words were only slightly wobbly.

“Then I’m staying,” Harry said, leaning close enough that his breath tickled Draco’s ear.

At that, tiny goosebumps erupted across Draco’s skin. Swallowing hard, he ignored the feeling and got Harry set up with a knife and cutting board. 

It was lucky Draco was so good in the kitchen because his thoughts danced away from him then, as if they had slipped into a faery revel. His mind spun through the mists and glamours of an alternate universe, one in which there was no shadow on his past, nothing separating him from Harry, nothing to keep him from burying his hands in Harry’s hair and kissing him senseless.

By the time Draco had dragged himself from the daydream, Harry was sitting at the table, cheerfully dicing butternut squash into perfectly sized chunks. Draco must have given him instructions automatically, without even realizing it. He shook his head, still feeling a bit dazed, and concentrated on slicing the onions and carrots.

Tipping them into the pot, he added more seasoning and settled against the counter as the mixture cooked. For the next few minutes, he split his time between stirring the vegetables, fretting over the rundown appearance of his kitchen (the cabinets were scuffed beyond repair and the beige wallpaper was peeling – not that Harry had ever seemed to notice), and trying not to be too obvious about ogling Harry. But, oh how adorable he looked, hunched over the table like that, the late afternoon sun softening the deep black of his hair and eyes squinty with concentration. His knife grip was a bit clumsy, but Draco could forgive him that.

The vegetables were just reaching ideal tenderness when Harry looked up from his task with a triumphant grin. 

“Done!” he cried, sounding as delighted as if he’d just captured a particularly elusive snitch.

“Perfect timing,” Draco said, giving Harry a warm nod of approval.

Harry brought the cutting board over and used the edge of his knife to knock the mound of squash into the pot. With an uncharacteristically bashful look at Draco, he smiled before retreating back to the table. He studied Draco for a minute, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Draco?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you always wear such nice clothes when you cook?”

Draco’s hand shook and he almost spilled too much Chardonnay over the vegetables. He steadied himself and set the wine bottle on the counter. 

He could have lied. Harry might even have believed that Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater and formerly posh gentleman, cooked while wearing perfectly tailored trousers and elegant, sapphire blue dress shirts that brought out the flecks of color in his eyes.

But Draco had dressed like this for Harry. And so, he leaned indolently against the counter and spoke the truth. 

With a wicked little smile, he answered, “No.”

***

Harry trailed a bit of bread through his soup, then popped it into his mouth and chewed blissfully, eyes squeezing almost shut. Draco had baked the bread earlier that morning, a thick and crusty loaf that contrasted beautifully with the silkiness of the butternut squash bisque.

He hoped he’d gotten the seasoning right; he was too jittery to really taste his own portion. Harry had enthusiastically devoured everything Draco had fed him over the past few weeks, but tonight was different. This was an evening that Draco had meticulously planned, just for Harry, and he had felt distinctly shy when placing the full bowls of soup on the table. 

Draco had balked earlier, after the brazen _no_ he’d given in answer to Harry’s question about his clothes. The implication had not been subtle, and Harry’s eyes had flashed in response. It had been _desire,_ Draco was almost sure, shocking in its intensity. And Draco crumbled in the face of it, a little boy fleeing the jaws of a wolf he had presumed it safe to tease.

Before Harry could react, Draco had shattered the heated moment, launching gracelessly into a monologue about the soup. He babbled about stock and black verses red pepper and the importance of whisking in the cream. All the while, he did not look at Harry, unable to face whatever emotion might be lurking in his eyes.

Draco had been doing this a lot lately, when it came to Harry Potter – plunging heedlessly into seas he did not know how to cross. The shimmering water was a lure he could not resist, even knowing he would not allow himself to reach the beauty of the far shores.

He could not understand it. Why do this? Why offer this (inarguably romantic) meal if he had no intention of acting on his desires? Why dress in these (devilishly sexy) clothes if knew he would retreat at the first sign of Potter’s interest?

But Draco could not seem to stop himself. And it was becoming harder and harder to keep guarding his heart.

Harry’s bowl was almost empty when he finally broke the silence.

“Draco?”

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t you just tell me you liked cooking?” Harry asked, buttering another slice of bread.

His tone was curious, not angry or demanding, but Draco’s hand jerked all the same. His spoon scraped harshly against the bottom of the bowl. The delighted shout of a child floated up from outside, momentarily overtaking the sounds of evening traffic.

“Why all the stuff about potions?” Harry added when Draco didn’t answer. “Does cooking embarrass you or something?”

Draco tossed his head, ready to deflect the question with a smirk and a joke, but it was like Harry could sense the coming façade. He slumped a little, going grey around the edges, resignation stealing his usual light. The quip died on Draco’s tongue.

“No,” Draco said. “I’m not embarrassed.” The words were simple in their honesty, leaving him exposed. He sighed. “I suppose I just miss it. Potions, I mean.”

Harry swallowed and set down his bread, eyes going soft, expression so tender that it broke something loose in Draco.

“Cooking reminds me of what it feels like to brew,” he whispered, flexing his fingers. The bones actually ached, longing to grip his wand or a stirring rod.

“Oh, Draco,” Harry breathed.

Draco consciously stilled his hands, resting one in his lap and reclaiming his spoon with the other. “It’s not as similar a skill set as I expected,” Draco said before neatly swallowing a few spoonfuls of soup. The observation was detached, far less emotional than what he had just admitted, and he found that distance comforting. “I had quite a few disasters at first,” he added with a shrug. “But I kept at it, and I enjoyed learning.”

“Oh, but –” Harry craned his neck to peer at the shelf above the table – “those books.”

Draco blushed, face feeling hot enough to rival the bold red of Harry’s t-shirt. He stood and busied himself with lowering the blinds. The streetlamps had winked on while they were eating, and the fluorescent light created an unpleasant glare against the table. He left enough of a gap at the bottom to still allow in the breeze. It fluttered his shirt tails, and for some reason, Draco found the sight calming. “I had hoped you’d forgotten about those,” he sighed. “You were half asleep when you looked at them.”

“Wait, so they _are_ fake?” Harry cried, voice somewhere between vindicated and scandalized.

“No!” Draco insisted stubbornly, fingers tightening on the sill of the window.

“Draco –”

Draco sighed again. “Fine,” he said, dropping back into his chair. “Blending Muggle nutritional science with Potions techniques is not a real academic discipline. I maintain my belief, however, that the theory is sound.”

Harry stared up at the shelf for a long moment, eyes flickering between the three books at its center. “Draco, are you trying to _write_ those books?” he asked, turning back to Draco. “About solid potions and nutrition and stuff?"

“I admit the titles may need some work.”

Harry gaped at him.

“Why are you looking at me like that, Potter?”

“I’m just – impressed. How did you even think of something like that?”

Draco hummed thoughtfully. He gathered up the bowls and utensils and carried them to the sink. As he rinsed them, delicately maneuvering around the pile of dirty dishes already there, he said, “I had always wondered if it would be possible to incorporate more – palatable ingredients into potion making. I thought there surely must be a better way than all those foul-tasting concoctions made of bits and pieces of insects and the like.” He grimaced, and bent to check on the meat in the oven. “And then I met Maeve, and I fell in love with tea, and I wanted to know more about it. So I started reading all these books, about the history of tea-making, and that led me to books about natural healing and the medicinal properties of herbs and plants.” 

He paused to baste the meat. Focused on the bubbling juices, he hardly realized how much of himself he was giving away. “And it reminded me,” he went on, “of Potions, and so I thought – what if there were a way to combine the two? To use Muggle ingredients to amplify the effects of certain potions? Could I create teas that were potions? What about meals? Could I create potions that tasted good, that nourished the body _and_ healed magical ailments?”

The snap of the closing oven brought Draco back to himself. He flinched as his mind caught up with his mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, fetching the pitcher of iced tea from the fridge. _Wind in the Grass_ – a crisp green blend, with strong notes of basil and mint. He returned to the table and refilled his and Harry’s glasses. “I’m probably boring you.”

“No, of course not,” Harry said. “Draco, I think it’s brilliant.” He fiddled with his napkin for a moment before asking, “How much Muggle science have you learned? You mentioned physiology when we talked to Hermione.”

“Quite a lot, actually. Not as much as I’ll need to, certainly, if I ever want to put my Potions theories into practice.” 

Draco bit back a curse. The compliment had unbalanced him, and he’d again spoken without thinking. 

He shrugged unconcernedly, trying to distract Potter from the dreams he had just inadvertently revealed. The bloody Gryffindor would probably get as pushy as Maeve if Draco wasn’t careful. 

“But you’d be surprised how much time there is for reading when your only friends are an eighty-four-year-old woman and a workaholic financial something or other. Consultant? Advisor? Lackey? I don’t know. Never mind.”

Harry’s face screwed up in puzzlement. “I thought Maeve was one hundred and eleven?”

Draco guffawed. “Oh, you saw my picture, did you?” He nodded toward the bookshelves in the far corner of the flat. “As far as I can tell, Maeve has turned one hundred eleven, or _eleventy-one,_ as she prefers to say, every year for at least the last twenty years. It’s a joke, from a Muggle adventure novel she loves.”

Harry laughed at that, but soon sobered. He looked almost hurt. “They’re not your only friends, you know,” he said softly. “You have me, too.” 

The comment should not have affected Draco as much as it did. Harry had said as much before, and Draco was even beginning to believe him. But Draco froze all the same, his blood turning to ice. Hope was a dangerous thing; it walked hand-in-hand with fear. 

Draco forced himself to relax his muscles. “Yes, you’re really getting in the way of my reading, Potter,” he tossed off, his face a mask of playful irritation.

Harry grinned, and Draco got up to fetch the roasting pan from the oven. Once it was safely resting on top of the stove, Draco saw that Harry was now frowning down at the table. He must have felt Draco’s eyes on him, because he looked up and met Draco’s gaze.

“You can’t test your theories, can you?” Harry said grimly. “Because you can’t do magic.”

“No, I can’t.” 

Draco’s words were matter-of-fact, not even a hint of regret in his tone, but it was like Harry could see right through him. The sorrow in Harry’s expression shook Draco to the core, fraying the edges of his stitched-together convictions. 

He hesitated for the space of a single heartbeat before crossing the flat and poking around the sofa cushions for the leather-bound book he had been writing in last night. Returning to the kitchen, he offered it to Harry, who took it with a perplexed expression. Draco chose not to explain, moving instead to plate the next course.

Harry flipped through the pages as Draco cut thick slices of meatloaf and scooped out two helpings of crispy potatoes and sprouts.

“These look like formulas,” Harry said. Draco looked over his shoulder and saw him intently scanning the book. “Are you breaking down different potions? To see how their parts interact?”

“Yes,” Draco answered, pleased that Harry had been able to follow his notes. “And Muggle ingredients, as well. I want to understand everything well enough to predict how traditional potions ingredients will chemically react with other substances.”

Harry made a thoughtful noise, fingers skimming gently over the ink of a particularly complex page. He did not look up until Draco’s shadow fell across the table.

“Thank you for showing me this,” Harry said. “I can tell it means a lot to you.”

“It’s just a hobby,” Draco said, strangling the impulse to share more of his impossible dream with Potter. He set down the plates, then gently plucked the book from Harry’s grip and deposited it on the shelf above the table.

The lie lingered on his lips, dry and stale-tasting. Frustrated with himself, Draco wondered again if he would always be like this. Opening the door to Potter only to slam it closed a minute later. Why this meal then? Why the clothes? Why show Harry the book at all?

 _“Merlin,_ Draco,” Harry exclaimed, cutting into Draco’s brooding. “This looks amazing.”

With a smirk of satisfaction, Draco settled back into his chair and gestured for Harry to eat. The meat was glistening, wrapped in slow-cooked bacon that had moistened the loaf with every drip of its fat. And the glaze he used added a smoky sweetness, tying all the flavors together.

When Harry took his first bite, he actually _moaned._ Draco watched his throat bob as he swallowed, and on the next bite, Harry moaned again.

Draco shifted in his chair. The sound was downright indecent. Worse even than the first time Harry had been here, when he’d sucked raspberry sauce from his finger and Draco, cock desperately hard, had been unable to look away.

Harry breathed out a string of compliments, then spent the rest of the meal asking surprisingly detailed questions about the recipe. Draco was beginning to suspect that Harry might be an impressive cook in his own right.

The conversation was a good distraction. It repurposed Harry’s mouth, drowned out the echoes of his moans in Draco’s ears. 

Still, it came as a relief when the plates were finally empty and Draco was able to slip away to the bedroom, where he had stored the cakes. He needed a minute away from Harry, just to properly catch his breath.

He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, closing his eyes and inhaling slowly. He felt oddly stretched, as if the things he told Potter had surged through his veins and forced their way out, leaving him misshapen, an empty sack too large for his bones.

Draco tugged at his hair, relishing the tight pull of his scalp. He imagined himself reordered, settling back into a shape that made sense. 

Nothing had changed. This was not the first personal revelation he had offered Harry. No, he had been allowing Harry to see the truth of him from the first day he apparated into Maeve’s shop. And Harry had not betrayed that trust.

He had accepted the oddities and sadnesses of Draco’s life, never once looking at him with disgust or pity. Against all odds, Harry Potter had become a safe person to bare his heart to. 

And Draco Malfoy would never be worthy of him. 

Draco’s eyes blinked open. He undid the buttons at his wrists and neatly cuffed his shirtsleeves, releasing some body heat. Shaking off the lingering tendrils of desire, he picked up the tray of cakes and left the bedroom. 

As soon as he stepped into the kitchen, Draco became aware that something had shifted. The air was charged with a new stillness, something coiled in wait. 

Harry was standing with his back to Draco. He had raised the blinds again, and was gazing solemnly out the window. There was a rigidity to his spine that was unnatural for him, and when Draco rounded the table to set the tray down on the counter, he saw that Harry’s jaw was clenched, sharp as cut glass.

Suddenly wary, Draco was uncertain how to proceed. He dithered awkwardly by the table, but when Harry did not look at him, Draco decided to finish preparing dessert. He got two glass bowls out of the cupboard and began to fill them with layers of cake, whipped cream, and fresh berry compote.

“Have you ever thought about appealing to the Ministry?” Harry said abruptly. “Trying to get your sentence reduced?”

Draco stiffened, crushing a bit of cake between his fingers. He rummaged around the mess of the counter for a cloth. “No.”

“Why not?”

When Draco turned, he saw that Harry was still staring out the window. 

Draco wiped off his hands and sighed. “I deserve the punishment.”

“You’ve been punished. For over a year.”

“And my sentence is seven,” Draco said firmly.

Harry finally looked away from the window, meeting Draco’s eyes briefly before dropping wearily back into his chair. “You don’t deserve that,” he mumbled. “It’s too much.”

Draco did not answer, but something inside him cried out. For one feverish moment, his magic flared to life, sparking from his core to the tips of his fingers. He bit his lip and focused on dampening it down.

“Your research is incredible, Draco. You deserve the chance to pursue it. To write those books.” Harry looked at Draco again, and his eyes were shining with emotion. “The war is over. You deserve to have more than one choice about how to live.”

After a beat of panicked indecision, Draco steeled himself and walked back to the table. He sat, then braced his arms against the table and leaned toward Harry. “I spent my entire childhood serving a regime that took away people’s choices, that destroyed their livelihoods, and that’s when it wasn’t summarily executing them for the crime of _existing.”_ He shook his head, voice becoming desperate, as if he could will Harry to understand. “Why should I have choices now? What right do I have to pursue dreams, when I helped take that away from so many others?”

“Because you were a child,” Harry cried. “Because you had no good choices. Because you did what you had to do to _survive.”_ His knuckles were white where he gripped the table, but all at once, his face went soft. “Because you are choosing to be different now.”

“It’s not enough,” Draco said bitterly, shaking his head again.

Harry wilted, slumping over the table. “You need to stop punishing yourself, Draco.”

Draco felt a flash of anger. “How can you say that to me?” he spat, but the rage quickly gave way to incredulity. “I made all the wrong choices. You made all the right ones, and you still carry guilt. Harry, your nightmares –” Draco hissed in a breath, cutting himself off. 

Harry huffed out a short laugh, pained and disbelieving. He scrubbed a hand over his face, knocking his glasses askew. “It’s ok, you can say it.”

“You dream about _killing_ the people you love,” Draco said, trying and failing to be gentle. He cringed slightly, but couldn’t stem the flow of emotion pouring from him. “How can you tell me, an actual fucking Death Eater – I’m Marked, Harry, I was _sworn_ to the Dark Lord – how can you tell _me_ to forgive myself? You saved the entire fucking world, and you _still_ blame yourself, for evils you had no part in.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I don’t know,” Harry said. He studied his hands, as if he was really thinking about it. “I’m not blameless. I did plenty I’m not proud of. But I understand what you mean.” Another long pause. Harry clenched and relaxed his fists several times. But then his face cleared and he looked up at Draco with a tired smile. “It’s something I need to work on. Something we both need to work on, I think.”

That took Draco aback. He had always thought of the war as something he needed to atone for, not heal from. Healing was for people like Harry, who had suffered for fighting against the Dark. But Harry made it seem more complicated than that. Harry made it feel like maybe Draco deserved healing too. 

The fight went out of Draco so quickly that he felt dizzy.

“I am trying, you know,” he finally offered. “Maeve – she helps. And –” his cheeks heated – “and so do you.”

“Yeah?” Harry rasped.

Draco nodded.

“I’m glad.” Harry’s hand twitched toward Draco’s. “You’ve been helping me too.”

The words were like a hook in Draco’s ribcage. The blood pounded in his temples as the air cinched tight. Harry tilted his head forward, his hair falling into rapidly darkening eyes.

Draco shoved his chair back, almost toppling over. He sprang to his feet and caught the chair before it could fall.

“Dessert!” he yelped, scrabbling toward the counter. He latched onto the bowls like something precious, delivered them to the table like he was erecting a barrier.

“This is a light vanilla sponge, spiced with the cherry tea you helped me make,” he explained, pulse calming with each word. “The whipped cream is infused with one of my winter teas, an especially rich chocolate. I know it’s not even properly autumn yet, but I couldn’t resist the flavor combination.”

 _“Enmity Forsworn,”_ Harry whispered, regret at war with reverence in the way his mouth shaped the words.

Draco’s breath caught. He almost whimpered. Oh, how he _ached._

He wanted to sweep the bowls aside, climb over the table and into Harry’s arms.

“What’s the chocolate one called?” Harry asked.

_“Teardrops and Tinsel.”_

Harry smiled and twirled his spoon in his hand. His eyes burned into Draco as he ate, licking cream from his lips and not looking away for a single bite.

When his bowl was empty, Harry leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile. “You know, Draco –” he said, crossing his hands behind his head. He fell silent, studying Draco with an intensity that felt like a thousand fire ants crawling beneath his skin.

“Yes?” Draco finally prompted.

“Next time there’s _a sale at the grocery_ –” the way the words dropped from Harry’s tongue made it abundantly clear that he’d not believed that for a second – “you should actually invite me over. I like this.”

“Well, the dessert could use some adjustments,” Draco said, frowning slightly, “but I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

Harry laughed. “Not the food.”

Draco sagged at that, surprisingly hurt. He tried to school his features, but Harry must have noticed, because he said hurriedly, “Well, yes, the food, obviously. You’re an insanely good cook.”

Placated, Draco smirked at him.

“But I meant _you._ I like –” Harry gulped – “I like hanging out with you.”

Draco’s smug expression flickered, transfigured into an unquenchable smile. His heart soared. 

“I’ll remember that,” he whispered.


	12. a tiny ball of heartache and shame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit emotional. Please read with care, and check the end notes for content warnings and potential triggers.  
> Love to all <3

It was a good dream for once. A beautiful one. Warm and colorful and sexy. Harry clung to it, even as his eyelids fluttered open. His hips bucked once, urgently, his throbbing cock fucking into the empty air.

He wished it were a rainy morning, wished for a misty, grey dawn blanketed with clouds that he could burrow beneath. Cuddle into the bedclothes, turn away from the day, slip heedlessly back into dream-Draco’s arms without ever fully wakening. There was pleasure there, and love, sweat-slicked skin and friction, kisses and whimpers and Draco, always Draco, sharp and sweet and perfect everywhere Harry touches, with his hands, his lips, his tongue.

But it was not a rainy morning. 

Sunlight poured into the bedroom like an unwelcome guest, growing more demanding with Harry’s every breath. The dream fractured, and Harry was left to greet the day, alone in his bed and achingly, desperately hard.

With a growl of frustration, Harry rolled onto his stomach and buried his head in the pillows to block the light. He rutted against the mattress, but it was so far from what he really wanted that all he could feel was an odd hollowness in the pit of his stomach. He whined pathetically and flopped over again, returning to lying on his back.

He forced himself to breathe slowly, calming the angry rush of his blood. Closing his eyes, he let go of the dream, loosening the fingers that had been clutching to its fading scraps. And then, as he peeled off his pants, he conjured a new image. Draco at the kitchen counter last night, shoulder muscles straining against deep blue fabric as he’d vigorously whisked the soup, fitted trousers emphasizing the curves of a sinfully gorgeous arse.

Harry imagined walking up behind Draco, pressing against him and murmuring in his ear. Mouthing at Draco’s neck and wrapping arms around him, undoing that fancy shirt, button by button, until his fingers found heated flesh. Sliding a hand lower, into his trousers, massaging Draco’s balls before palming his cock.

Harry was moaning softly now, working a hand over his own hardness. It was good, so good, to touch himself while thinking of Draco. He hadn’t done this yet, hadn’t allowed himself to, had been afraid to look too closely at this tender thing growing between them, lest he spook it and chase it away. 

Pre-come dribbled from his slit, but it wasn’t enough, and Harry needed _more, harder, now,_ and so he groped blindly toward his bedside table, unwilling to look away from the Draco in his head for even a second. But he was tangled in his blankets and he couldn’t quite reach and his fingers were scrabbling uselessly at the corner of the drawer and he couldn’t bring himself to let go of his cock long enough to roll closer to the table.

And then there was a loud _crack,_

and a tiny gasp,

and this wasn’t happening,

it _wasn’t,_

but when Harry opened his eyes,

of course, there he was.

_Draco._

They locked eyes, Harry’s fingers still tight on his cock. For a long moment, they just stared at each other, and then, as if he could not help himself, Draco’s gaze dropped to Harry’s crotch.

Draco’s breath hitched, and a splotchy redness spread from his cheeks to his neck. He was still in pajamas, and his white t-shirt was so thin that Harry could see the outline of his nipples, hard in the chill morning air. The waistband of his boxers peeked out of pajama bottoms that clung enough to expose the shape of his cock.

“Fuck,” Harry whispered.

The word seemed to break the spell over both of them. Draco jumped back a step and averted his eyes, while Harry yanked the blankets from beneath him and threw them over his lap. He pushed himself upright and leaned against the headboard, dropping his head into his hands.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry mumbled.

Draco cleared his throat. “Did you – erm, well – did you need – uh –”

“Lube,” Harry said miserably. “In that drawer.” He pointed without looking up.

There were quiet footsteps and the sound of the drawer opening and closing. Harry peered surreptitiously through his fingers and saw Draco place the bottle of lube on the bed.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said again. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s no problem,” Draco said, voice strained, yet kind. He smoothed his hands over his pajama bottoms. “Well, you have what you need, so I’ll just – I’ll just leave you to it.” He nodded awkwardly in Harry’s direction, and then he was gone, closing the bedroom door firmly behind him.

Harry managed to hold himself still until he heard the back door click shut. And then he plunged his hand under the blankets, grabbing for his cock.

Harry wanted to stop, he tried to stop, he really did – but he just couldn’t. It was like trying to hold back the tide. His hand sped, and he shuddered and whined and fucked his fist until he came gasping Draco’s name.

Panting, he cast a wandless cleaning charm, and when his breathing finally slowed, he curled into himself, a tiny ball of heartache and shame.

Harry’s second to last thought before sleep reclaimed him was that he _missed_ Draco. He wanted to hold him, and now that he had gone and ruined things, he probably never would.

His last thought was that he hadn’t even used the lube.

***

Harry was halfway around the lake when he realized he could not outrun the words.

His feet pounded against the dirt trail, and with every footfall, echoes of the inked letters seemed to shudder up his shins, clawing at his spine. They looped thorny tendrils around his lungs, stealing his breath as they pulled tight.

_Dear Mr. Potter_

_Greetings Mr. Potter_

_We humbly ask_

_beseech_

_invite you to apply_

He gritted his teeth and upped the pace, ignoring the sharpening ache in his left ankle.

_Dear Mr. H. Potter_

_requirements waived_

_no interview necessary_

_To the honorable Mr. Potter_

_We would like to cordially welcome you_

_exclusive interview_

_attempt to secure funding_

_exciting opportunity_

_charity work_

The trees blurred past, the sounds of birds and the lapping waters of the lakeshore receding as blood rushed in his ears. His breathing grew more and more labored. This wasn’t right. He could normally run three or four laps of this trail without getting winded. 

_our highest compliments_

_We await the pleasure of your response_

_possible publishing contract_

_private organization_

_negotiate_

_Please reply_

_competitive salary_

He was sprinting full out now, gasping for air, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. 

_Dear Mr. Potter_

_head your own department_

He couldn’t see, darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision, narrowing the world to a single point.

_sincerest gratitude_

Couldn’t breathe.

_public relations_

_We implore you_

His knees hit the ground, a lightning shock of pain reverberating through his body. His palms stung, scraped raw against the pebbled dirt.

Couldn’t breathe. 

_Dear Mr. Potter_

_Please consider_

Couldn’t breathe.

_would be honored_

_for the good of the wizarding world_

Couldn’t breathe.

__Harry tried to clamber to his feet, only to fall again. On hands and knees, he wheezed painfully, failing to force air into his straining lungs. Sweat poured down his face in burning rivulets. He clawed at his chest as his heart raced. Too tight, everything was too tight. His throat, his skin, his lungs, the air itself._ _

__And then there was something else._ _

__Strong hands gripping his shoulders, moving down his arms until long, elegant fingers entwined with Harry’s own._ _

__“Harry?”_ _

__The world was still dark, all static and confusion, but Harry knew Draco’s voice._ _

__Draco was _here,_ kneeling in the dirt with Harry._ _

__“C-can’t –” Harry gasped. He clutched desperately at Draco’s hands, trying to pull himself out of the whirlwind that was swallowing him. “Can’t b-br–”_ _

__“Ok,” Draco said. “It’s ok, don’t try to talk. Can you look at me, Harry?”_ _

__Harry struggled to raise his head. He squeezed his eyes open and closed several times until he was able to focus on Draco._ _

__“Yes, that’s it. I’m here with you, ok?” Draco moved his thumbs to the inside of Harry’s wrists, applying pressure. “Feel that?”_ _

__Harry nodded. He was shaking violently, as if his body would rip at the seams and shudder apart. But Draco was here, and he wouldn’t let Harry fall._ _

__“Ok, focus on that. And now we’re just going to breathe. Try to match my breaths, ok?”_ _

__Draco breathed slowly, in and out, exaggerating each inhale and exhale. Harry tried to breathe with him. His attempts were shaky, the air repeatedly hitching in his throat._ _

__“That’s right, good. Just like that. Slow inhale, full exhale.”_ _

__Harry stared into Draco’s eyes, let that storm-cloud grey envelop him, let it speak to him of rainy days and a roaring fire and hot mugs of tea. Harry looked at Draco, and just breathed, in and out, in and out. Slowly, the pressure in his chest eased, his heart steadied, and soon enough he could hear the world again, the creaking of the branches above them, small animals darting through the brush._ _

__“Where’s your wand, Harry?”_ _

__Head still muddled, Harry pulled it from the thigh holster he wore under his running shorts and tried to hand it to Draco. Draco shook his head._ _

__“Just a second,” he murmured. He shuffled backward, giving himself enough space to tug his light jumper off over his head. He had a blue t-shirt on underneath. Leaning toward Harry, Draco closed his fingers around Harry’s wrist and guided him to point his wand at the jumper. “Cast _Aguamenti.”__ _

__In a dull voice, Harry complied, and a stream of water soaked the jumper. Draco wrung it out, letting the excess water drip into the dirt beside them. Then, he wiped Harry’s face with the jumper, gently cleaning off the dirt and tears and sweat. He pressed the cool cotton against Harry’s forehead and temples, letting it rest there for a minute before moving it to the back of his neck._ _

__“Better?” Draco asked._ _

__Harry nodded._ _

__“You should drink some too, if you can.”_ _

__Harry scrubbed his hands off on the damp sleeve of the jumper before casting again. He gulped a few swallows of water from his cupped palm._ _

__“Thanks,” Harry croaked when he had finished._ _

__“Harry,” Draco said, “I know you’re not ok right now, and I want you to know that I’m going to stay with you until you are.”_ _

__At that, Harry collapsed sideways into Draco. Trembling, he buried his head in Draco’s chest and choked out a sob. Without another word, Draco wrapped Harry in his arms, holding him safe against the storm._ _

____

***

Harry was slumped on the sofa, wet hair dripping down the back of his neck. When Draco entered the room, Harry bit his lip and looked away, only just managing not to hide his face in the crook of his elbow.

Unperturbed, Draco set down a plate of toast and a steaming mug of tea on the coffee table in front of Harry, before wedging himself into the opposite corner of the sofa.

“I wasn’t certain you’d be hungry,” Draco said, “but it’s there if you want it.”

Harry didn’t answer, but he picked up the mug. The warmth felt good against his fingers.

Draco had held Harry for a long time on that trail by the lake, rubbing his back soothingly and speaking to him in quiet murmurs. Eventually, Harry had calmed enough to get up, and Draco had walked with him back to the cottage. Harry let them in through the back door, and when he had seen the parchment strewn over the kitchen table and floor, all the anxiety had come flooding back. He thought he was going to be sick. Draco had been frowning at the mess, but with one look at Harry, he somehow understood.

“Why don’t you go change?” Draco had said, nudging Harry toward the stairs. “I’ll clean this up.”

Harry felt a twinge of guilt, but he dreaded even touching those letters, and so he did what Draco said. Bypassing the stairs, he went into the downstairs bathroom and stuck his head under the tap. His teeth were chattering by the time he finally shucked off his sweaty t-shirt and pulled on an old hoodie that had been hanging from a hook on the back of the bathroom door. Without bothering to dry his hair or remove his dirty shorts and trainers, he had dragged himself to the living room and collapsed on the sofa.

“I know this is easier said than done,” Draco said now, tucking his legs beneath him and shifting on the sofa to fully face Harry, “but don’t be embarrassed. There’s no need.”

Harry shrugged uncomfortably, fingers tightening on the mug. He still didn’t take a sip.

“I’m serious,” Draco said. “That could just as easily have been me.”

Harry almost looked at him. Almost.

“Is that how you knew what to do?” Harry asked, eyes stubbornly fixed on the bookshelf across the room. He absently noted the yellowing leaves of the plant perched there and chided himself for forgetting to water it.

“Maeve’s had to talk me down a few times,” Draco admitted. “I just did what she does for me.” 

Harry nodded. “Thanks. I – I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t –” he swallowed painfully, throat raw from crying. “I’m not embarrassed. Not about that. I know you – I mean, I –”

Harry groaned in frustration. He put the untouched tea back on the table and twisted his fingers into his hair. “It’s just – yesterday morning –” Unable to finish, he dropped his head, sure his face was bright red.

“Oh,” Draco said. “That.”

Harry laughed, a touch hysterically. “Yes. That.”

“Please, Potter,” Draco drawled. He poked Harry’s hip with his socked foot, and Harry almost leapt off the sofa. “I told you that was no problem. We did go to boarding school, you know. That was far from the first time I’ve walked in on something like that.”

Harry let out another strangled little groan.

“Besides,” Draco continued nonchalantly, “it’s no worse than when you barged into my bathroom that time. I believe you saw everything I have to offer.”

“I did not barge in,” Harry argued, and he could almost hear Draco’s smirk. “And you weren’t in the middle of – I mean, I was – _argh_ – mine was definitely worse.”

“Yes, well, I prefer to have my morning wank in the shower,” Draco said musingly, “but to each his own. I’m certainly not going to judge you for a little thing like that.” He prodded Harry with his foot again. “I have plenty of other things to judge you for, after all.”

Draco was baiting him, Harry realized, distracting him with banter so he’d forget to be embarrassed. It was such an odd way of being kind, such a _Draco_ way, that it made Harry’s heart feel tender, almost bruised. 

“Wanker,” Harry muttered, but he was smiling, even if he still felt weak.

Draco refrained from commenting on the irony of that. He did raise his eyebrows though, and they both chuckled.

“Thank you, Draco,” Harry said, finally looking directly at him. “Really.”

Draco waved a hand. “Don’t mention it, Potter.”

Still smiling, and absurdly relieved to move past the wanking incident, Harry grabbed a piece of toast and crunched into it. “This is good,” he said, surprised by the taste. “It’s sweet.”

“I added some honey and cinnamon to the butter before making the toast. I thought you could use the sugar.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. Not wanting to think about his meltdown just yet, he asked, “What potion would this be?”

“Hmm,” Draco breathed. “Calming draught, with just a touch of dreamless sleep. A restorative, of sorts.”

“Yeah, tired,” Harry mumbled.

“Do you want to go up to bed?”

Harry shook his head. He finished the slice of toast, then wriggled a little deeper into the sofa. He huffed grumpily as his neck bent in an unpleasant angle.

“Here, stretch out,” Draco said, standing to make more room.

Harry was too tired to argue. He sank into the cushions, lying comfortably on his side. Eyes heavy, he felt more than saw Draco drape a blanket over him. Draco’s hand was in his hair then, thumb gently brushing Harry’s forehead. Or maybe it was just dream-Draco touching him with that caress that felt like love, because Harry was already asleep.

***

Night had fallen by the time Harry woke. He rolled onto his back and stretched, relishing the cool air the spilled beneath the blanket as it slid off his shoulders. His calves were sore, and the muscles in his back and chest felt tight, a faint protest in them when he moved. Harry’s stomach dropped, the memory of earlier snaking its way through his veins, and he jerked upright.

“Draco?” he gasped.

“I’m here,” came the voice from the corner, calm and reassuring. 

Harry twisted to face him. The room was dim, but Draco was bathed in the glow of the little reading lamp on the table by the far window. He was curled into the armchair, an open book on his lap. Moonlight glinted silver in his hair, even as the lamplight warmed his skin. Harry thought he had never looked so beautiful.

“How are you feeling?” Draco asked, untucking his legs from beneath him and leaning toward Harry.

Harry considered that as he ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. He rolled his shoulders and rubbed at a crick in his neck. “Better,” he said finally. “You didn’t have to stay.”

“I promised to stay until you were alright.”

“But I wasted your whole day!” Harry protested, glancing ruefully at the scattering of stars he could see out the window.

“Nonsense, Potter,” Draco scoffed. “Nothing was wasted. I’ve been reading one of your books, and I learned at least seven things I did not know about Muggle Aurors.”

That made Harry smile in spite of himself. “Detectives?” he asked.

“Yes, detectives! Fascinating,” Draco sighed dreamily. He ran a reverent finger down the spine of the book, eyes gone glassy and distant. Then he jumped slightly and shook free of his reverie. He cocked his head at Harry. “Why do you read these stories if you don’t want to be an Auror?”

It seemed an odd question, seeing as Draco was so obviously enamored with the story himself, but Harry didn’t mind answering. Those books were like dueling, really. A way to feed the parts of him that still longed for the intrigues of the war.

“I like figuring out the mysteries,” Harry said. “It’s fun when it’s not real, like a puzzle.”

Draco’s mouth crooked, and he looked down at the book as if Harry had just issued him a challenge. Harry made a mental note to dig out the few mystery novels that had really stumped him, and lend only those to Draco. Just thinking of how cross Draco would be if he couldn’t figure them out made Harry want to laugh. Chuckling silently, he picked up the mug from the table and gulped down the cold tea.

Draco watched him with a faint expression of distaste. “I would have made you a fresh cup, had you asked.” He sniffed in disapproval.

“It’s fine cold,” Harry said unconcernedly. He shrugged and settled more comfortably into the sofa. 

Outside, an owl hooted, and the hum of crickets was interrupted only by leaves rustling in the occasional gusts of wind. Closing his eyes, Harry let the evening chorus wash pleasantly over him.

“Harry?”

Harry looked up, and Draco hesitated before setting the book down on the table next to him. He ran anxious fingers over the shaved side of his head, then folded his hands into his lap as if to stop himself from fidgeting.

“Do you – do you want to talk about what happened?”

Harry tensed, and Draco immediately backtracked. 

“We don’t have to, of course. It’s entirely up to you.” He clamped his mouth shut and his knuckles whitened. After a pause, he added, “I just wanted you to know, that you can talk about it, if you want to. I’m, well – I’m here.”

“No, I –” Harry gnawed on his lip. “Er – yeah, talking would be ok, I think.”

Harry stood and wandered across the room. He was a bit unsteady, but it felt good to stretch his legs. “Just give me a minute,” Harry said over his shoulder, making his way to the kitchen.

He poured two glasses of water and brought them back to the living room. After handing one to Draco, he drained his own and flopped back onto the sofa.

Harry mulled over what to say, while Draco sat quietly, allowing Harry the time he needed to compose himself.

“It was the letters,” Harry said.

There was another pause. Harry kicked off his trainers and moved to sit cross-legged. He sighed and rested his elbow against the arm of the sofa, propping his head in his hand.

“I suspected as much,” Draco said gently. “They seemed to be offers of employment? I caught a few phrases here and there, but I tried not to read them. I did not wish to pry.”

“Thank you for cleaning them up,” Harry said with a pained smile. “I don’t think I could have looked at them again today without losing it.”

“You’re welcome.”

Draco’s tone was mild, his entire body relaxed, as if his actions today had been a small favor, hardly worth acknowledging. He wasn’t disturbed, or panicking about Harry’s panic, or demanding that Harry do anything other than exactly what he wanted to do. He looked at Harry like a _person,_ not a hero, or a sacrifice, not a defective piece of machinery that had been chewed up and spit out by the war. In Draco’s eyes, Harry was whole. 

It made Harry feel safe in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time, and he could not have been more grateful.

“I guess I’ve just been thinking about some of the stuff you’ve said.” Harry started slowly, still adjusting to the idea that it was ok to share this part of him. “About the emptiness in my dreams, and not having anything to do with myself, and – and the guilt we talked about. I’ve been getting those letters since the end of the war, and I never really read them all that closely. The Auror department writes at least twice a month, but there’s other things too. The Unspeakables wanting to study me and newspapers begging for an interview and all these people wanting to use my name for profit.”

Draco’s expression hardened, face creased with the beginnings of anger.

“It was too much, you know? It felt like crows ripping apart a corpse, looking for one more scrap of meat.” Harry broke off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, that probably sounds ridiculous. It’s just – how much more can I give?”

“It’s not ridiculous,” Draco said. His fingers were worrying at the sides of the armchair, tracing the geometric pattern of the fabric.

Harry watched him for a moment, soothed by the repetitive motion.

“So every time I get another letter like that,” he went on, “I just shove it in a box. Anyway, like I said, I’ve been thinking about what I should do. And I thought if I went through the letters, maybe I’d find something. Something good. They can’t all be horrible, right?”

Draco’s mouth twisted skeptically at that, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I was reading them all morning, and I guess I just got overwhelmed. It was the same thing, over and over. All these people wanting a piece of Harry Potter, offering me things I didn’t earn, invasive questions, demands, guilt trips.” Harry sighed. _“Think of the greater good, Mr. Potter,”_ he quoted bitterly. 

Harry massaged his temples, trying to erase the words. They flashed mockingly in front of his eyes. He shook his head impatiently and refocused on Draco. 

“I just – panicked. So I went for a run. I thought it would help – but obviously it didn’t.”

Draco nodded, face softening with compassion. And suddenly, Harry realized he was putting into words things that he had never admitted aloud. He normally fled from feelings like this, throwing himself into a book or a run or his next training bout with Will. But somehow, held in Draco’s steady gaze, Harry found himself expressing things he’d hardly even realized he felt. These were words that had chased Harry around his own mind, biting into him in payment for being ignored. Acknowledged now, the words still hurt, but they weren’t as scary, not when Harry could give them to Draco.

“I felt – I felt like it was hopeless. That I’ll never escape the person I had to be to win the war, never be allowed to be something other than Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world.” Harry sketched air quotes with his fingers. “The letters make everything feel – I don’t know – _tainted_ or something. They make _me_ feel tainted. I don’t even know what I want to do, but it feels impossible to choose something just for me.”

Harry hung his head, feeling a bit dizzy under the weight of that admission. 

There was a long silence.

“Er – that’s it, I think,” Harry sighed. “That’s what happened.”

Draco still did not respond, so Harry lifted his head. Draco was staring at him, face frozen in a stricken expression. His hand clutched his t-shirt, directly over his heart. “I’m so sorry, Harry. I never should have said those things to you, about your nightmares. You were fine, and then I –”

“No, Draco, it’s ok,” Harry cut in. “I wasn’t fine. Not really. I’m still not. But I think I need to accept that, and think about – all this, if I want to actually be fine someday.” He took a steadying breath. “So please don’t apologize.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably. He ran a thumb over his faded Dark Mark and slowly nodded.

“What do you think I should do?” Harry asked, more to break the silence than because he expected a real response. 

To his surprise, Draco seemed to have an answer.

“Honestly?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.

Curious, Harry nodded.

“Well, first of all, I think you should throw those letters straight in the bin.” Draco’s hands clenched on the arms of his chair, and he leaned forward fiercely. “Fuck the Aurors,” he growled, “and the Ministry, and anyone else who wants to get their hands on you.”

Harry breathed out a startled laugh. Fire flickered in Draco’s eyes for another moment before guttering out. He turned his head to the side and echoed Harry’s laugh, sounding a bit sheepish. He stood abruptly and moved to join Harry on the sofa, sitting far closer than he had before Harry’s nap. Their thighs brushed, sending a flare of heat up Harry’s entire side.

“And I think you should stop pressuring yourself,” Draco said, voice quieter now, but just as emphatic. “You’ve more than earned a break. Besides, what you choose to do right now doesn’t have to determine what you do next. You don’t have to pick one thing and pursue that forever. I say do what you like, and when you stop liking it, stop doing it. Think of it like your white morning mugs. You get to decide, every day. You can always, always choose again.”

“Choose again,” Harry repeated, a bit awe-struck by how simple Draco made it sound. “Choose again.” The words were sweet on his tongue. Unconsciously, he pressed his shoulder into Draco’s.

“You enjoy – what was it, again? Kick-dueling?”

“Kickboxing,” Harry corrected with an amused snort.

Draco hardly seemed to notice. He was tapping a finger against Harry’s knee, lost in thought. “Is there a larger – category? Or, discipline maybe? That kickboxing belongs to, I mean? Like how dueling is one aspect of Defense?”

“Er – yeah,” Harry said, almost entirely distracted by Draco’s glancing touches. “It’s a kind of martial arts, I guess.”

“Ok, martial arts,” Draco said, the words sounding strange in a pure-blood’s mouth. Releasing Harry’s knee, he brushed the hair out of his eyes and smiled. “Would you be interested in learning more about martial arts? Its history, how it is used in different cultures, maybe different time periods even?” Draco’s words came faster, tone laced with excitement. “When you learn more about something, it opens pathways into other subjects, other things that might inspire you, and when you follow the research like that, you can find all these new things to be passionate about, things that give you new ideas and shift your perspective.”

Draco turned to face Harry fully, eyes alight. But then their knees knocked together, and Draco startled, as if just realizing how close they were sitting. He scooted back a bit, no longer touching Harry.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You must think I’m daft, giving advice like that. I mean, that’s what I would do – well, that _is_ what I do. With tea and Potions and everything. But I’m aware that we’re very different people, so perhaps that’s not as helpful as I thought it might be when I started.” Draco cringed. “Sorry.”

“Draco!” Harry shoved Draco’s shoulder playfully. “Stop. Apologizing.”

The corner of Draco’s mouth quirked, but he was clearly still embarrassed.

“I like that idea a lot, actually,” Harry said, wanting to reassure him. “Sometimes I think about how I might like to keep studying Defense. But I really, really don’t want to be an Auror, and I didn’t want to feel pressured into that.”

“I understand,” Draco said. He had regained his composure when he saw Harry was taking his suggestion seriously. “There are other things you can do with Defense though,” he argued. “Or you can just learn about it and do nothing with it at all.”

“That sounds like such a – waste,” Harry said, but then he realized he was grinning. “But that doesn’t matter, does it? Because it would be for _me.”_ He grabbed Draco’s hand and squeezed it. “Draco, you’re pretty fucking brilliant.”

Draco blinked at him, but quickly covered his surprise with a haughty expression. “I’m glad you’re finally appreciating my superior intellect, Potter.”

“Git,” Harry said fondly.

“Wanker,” Draco shot back.

Harry gave him an unimpressed look, but then the mischief in Draco’s eyes cracked into a smile, and they both burst into laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter describes a panic attack in detail.


	13. only a groom

The sight of Harry’s face in Draco’s workshop was so disorienting that for a minute all Draco could do was blink down at his hand, searching for blood. If Harry was here, then perhaps Draco had hurt himself worse than he’d thought.

His methodical inventory of Novelle’s stock had been interrupted when the lid of a metal storage tin snapped shut on his fingertips. It was just a little pinch though, and Draco had really only come back to the workshop for a break.

“Bad time?” Harry asked.

Draco looked up from gingerly flexing his fingers and finally registered the flames flickering around Harry’s fading smile. Of course – it was a fire-call, not their unconscious apparition.

“No, not at all,” Draco said smoothly. 

The fact that Harry was voluntarily seeking him out sent a shiver of pleasure up Draco’s spine. He straightened his tie and moved closer to the fire.

“You sure?” Harry asked. “You look – flustered.”

“Oh.” Draco blushed. He was flustered, thrown into the tangle of desire and confusion that worsened every time he was unexpectedly confronted with Harry. This was the first time Harry had ever commented on it though. _Merlin._

“It’s nothing,” Draco said, rushing to fill the awkward silence. “I had planned to begin work on my winter teas today – it takes quite a while to build up enough stock – but I seem to have misplaced my notes. I have new ideas, of course, but I also want to recreate last year’s most popular flavors. I could work backward without too much trouble if I had samples of the blends, but I just went through almost the entire storeroom and didn’t find anything.” He scowled crossly and grumbled, “I told Maeve not to meddle with my organizational system, but she never listens.”

“Can I help?” Harry offered.

“What?” Draco started slightly, then refocused on Harry. “No – sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble on like that.” He tucked a few stray locks of hair behind his ear. “Why did you call?”

Before Harry could answer, Draco frowned. “Actually, _how_ did you call? As far as I know, this fireplace is not connected to the Floo Network.”

“It’s not,” Harry confirmed. “I had to call the shop, and then Maeve said she’d transfer me to you. I didn’t know you _could_ transfer fire-calls.”

“You can’t,” Draco said, huffing out a breath that was more fond than exasperated. “But impossibilities do not seem to apply to Maeve. She simply ignores them.”

“Sounds about right,” Harry said with a grin.

The fire crackled, its shadows dancing across Harry’s cheekbones. Draco wanted to touch him, longed to trace that dazzling smile with the tip of his finger, capturing the feel of it to keep safe inside his own beating heart.

Draco wet his lips. “Did she try to make you drink a cup of tea through the fire?”

“No, she _succeeded_ in making me drink a cup of tea through the fire.”

“Merlin, she’s incorrigible!” Draco cried, wincing in mock sympathy. “Sorry about that, Potter.”

Harry snorted. “Draco, I wouldn’t turn down a cup of your tea if it made me late for my own wedding.”

Warmth suffused Draco, as if he were the one with his head in the flames. “I’m sure your bride would be quite unimpressed,” he drawled, trying to hide how pleased he was by the compliment.

“Or my groom,” Harry countered.

“Or your – groom?” Draco echoed inanely.

Harry nodded, a hint of challenge in his eyes. And Draco shied from it, even as everything he was, everything he used to be, rebelled at the idea of backing down from Potter.

But what was Draco supposed to do with that information? 

It was not a surprise, exactly. Not after the way Harry had looked at Draco on the night of their impromptu dinner party, bold and certain and full of barely contained _want._ Still, attraction (even blatant attraction) was one thing, and asserting bisexuality (aloud) (to Draco, of all people) was quite another.

Draco did not know what Harry was offering, did not even know if he _was_ offering something. Draco swallowed hard, and did not reply.

Harry sighed into the silence, then bit his lip, looking abashed. When he glanced back up at Draco, his eyes had lost some of their light. Draco felt his nails bite into his palms and forced himself to unclench his fingers.

“Are you busy?” Harry asked. “Hermione has some information for us. She’s going to call between meetings this afternoon.”

That brought Draco up short, snapping him out of the fog of doubt and longing clouding his mind.

“Harry,” he hissed in panic, “we never made any notes!”

Draco scurried over to his desk. His hands combed through the piles of parchment, searching for a blank page, a spare pen or quill. Scrawling down a few hastily compiled observations now would hardly satisfy Hermione, but it would be better than nothing.

As he hunted through the mess of papers, Draco’s mind whirled backward, counting and recounting the days since they had last met with Hermione, unwilling to believe it had been nearly three weeks. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry said, but Draco barely heard him.

“She’s going to be so disappointed,” Draco muttered.

He hung his head over the desk, stunned by the loss of urgency that had occurred without his notice. When they had first discovered their mysterious connection, Draco had felt it like a shackle. It had loomed over him, constantly threatening the tidy life he had built for himself in the aftermath of the war. But he’d let his guard down, stopped researching just like Maeve had suggested, without even consciously realizing it. He and Harry had both been behaving as if the apparition was of no consequence, as if they were actually a part of each other’s lives.

Draco did not know whether that thrilled or terrified him.

“Draco, stop,” Harry said, cutting into Draco’s unraveling thoughts. “It’s ok, I promise. There’s no way Hermione believed for a second that I was going to take notes.”

Draco’s hands stilled. “I do not like the idea of letting her down.” He paused, then admitted, “I’d like her to think well of me.”

Harry’s face went so soft at that, so _tender,_ that Draco’s mind went fuzzy.

“Want to come through?” Harry asked. “I made lemonade, and we’ll probably have enough time to do some notes.”

Draco cleared his throat, surprised to find himself standing upright rather than reduced to a melted puddle at Harry’s feet. “You want me to come over?”

Harry shrugged. “Unless you’d rather see if Maeve could set up a three-way fire-call for us.”

“A three-way fire-call violates every principle of magical theory I have ever studied,” Draco said seriously. “And yet, I am quite certain she could.”

Harry laughed, and a tentative smile welled up from Draco’s heart.

“But yes, alright,” Draco said. “I’ll come through. Just give me a moment to speak to Maeve.”

“Don’t bother. I already told her I was probably going to kidnap you.” Harry shot Draco a cheeky grin. “She was delighted.”

“Potter,” Draco growled, attempting to summon up some indignation. But it was no good. Draco _wanted_ to go. He’d deal with Maeve’s teasing later.

Harry just beamed at him and extended a hand to help Draco into the fire.

***

An hour later, Harry and Draco were sitting in the kitchen arguing about a mystery novel, and they still had not made a single note.

While Harry was sleeping off the effects of his panic attack last week, Draco had chosen a book off the shelf at random. By the time Harry woke, Draco was invested enough in the story that he had asked to borrow it before leaving, and Harry happily obliged.

Draco had finished the book over the weekend, reading for long hours into the night. Deciphering the clues sprinkled through the pages had given him a thrill, and he hadn’t deduced the identity of the murderer until the very last moment, only a page or so before the big reveal. He was not entirely impressed with the detective character – he often overlooked potential leads that were glaringly obvious to Draco – but reading the book had been – _fun._ It was a different pleasure than Draco normally associated with reading. He enjoyed the novelty of it, and he enjoyed the idea of sharing in something of Harry’s.

None of that was why Draco had initiated the conversation though. No, the mystery novel was a connection, however tenuous, to the fact that Draco had witnessed Harry’s breakdown. Bringing up the book was the only way Draco could think of to ask how Harry was, aside from actually asking, of course.

Draco didn’t want to pressure Harry, but he also desperately wanted him to know that he could talk to Draco, whenever and however he needed to, that he didn’t ever need to hide behind a façade or pretend he wasn’t still hurting. 

That’s why Draco mentioned the novel, to acknowledge what had happened by the lake that day, to signal that he was open to discussing it further, to imply that Harry could speak freely, without shame or fear. But because Draco had not actually asked, the choice remained Harry’s. 

Perhaps he should have been more direct. Abruptly demanding to know how this fool detective ever made it through the Muggle equivalent of the Auror Academy probably wasn’t the _best_ opening to discussing the complex emotions of post-war existential angst. 

Draco could only hope that Harry understood.

And somehow, Harry did. Because right in the middle of a rapid-fire back and forth about the limitations of Muggle methods for tracking suspects, Harry took Draco up on the silent offer that floated beneath all the book talk. 

Harry cut himself off with a little laugh and said, “This is nice.” Stretching his arms above his head, he twisted from side to side until his spine popped. When his arms dropped, he turned to smile at Draco. “I’ve felt a lot better the last couple days, but I missed you. I’m glad you came over.”

Draco’s pulse sped, his heart throbbing painfully. “So am I,” he murmured.

“I burned the letters,” Harry said then, startling a laugh out of Draco.

“Potter, I said throw them in the bin!” Draco chortled. “Who knew Gryffindors could be so symbolically dramatic?”

Harry shrugged, grinning. “It felt good,” he said simply, not even the slightest bit sheepish.

Draco was so bloody proud of him he almost burst. He might even have said so, if Harry had not continued.

“It was less overwhelming to look through them, knowing I was going to pitch them in the fire the second they said something I didn’t like.” Harry shrugged again and ran a finger along the rim of his lemonade glass. “There was one I kept though. I hadn’t noticed it before. It’s from a new organization that provides for war orphans.”

Draco’s breath caught, but he managed not to jump. It was a coincidence, he assured himself, that was all. Harry couldn’t possibly know.

“What did it say?” Draco asked, voice as calm as he could make it.

“It wasn’t very specific,” Harry admitted, “but they asked if I’d be interested in volunteering with the kids. They probably want me to share my inspiring orphan story or something.” The last sentence was bitter, his lip curling derisively.

“How do you feel about that?”

“About telling my story?” Harry kicked lightly against the leg of the table. “Not great.”

“You don’t owe that to anyone, Harry,” Draco said. “Not even war orphans.”

“I know that,” Harry sighed. He crossed his arms over his stomach, scratching nervously at an elbow. Steady as the words were, it was clear he did not fully believe them.

“Why didn’t you burn that one?” Draco prodded gently, after a moment of silence.

Harry did not answer, but his jaw worked, as if he were chewing on a response. Not wanting to rush him, Draco averted his eyes and gazed out the open windows. The afternoon light was fading and the tree branches cast long, twining shadows over Harry’s garden. It was seeped of color, only a few wildflowers still catching the last rays of the sun. The effect was almost eerie, and it was hauntingly beautiful. Draco wondered what it would be like to hold Harry’s hand in that garden, to lose themselves in each other’s arms as the sunset painted over color with gradual darkness. Draco’s hands trembled, and he was relieved when Harry finally spoke.

“I can’t really explain it, but it was the only letter that didn’t feel – slimy,” Harry said. “It wasn’t aggressive or like, worshipping or whatever. It felt – genuine, like they’d be open to other ideas, like they’d work with me to develop something good for the kids and me both.”

Harry paused and Draco nodded encouragingly.

“I thought maybe I could just play with them, you know? Do flying lessons, simplified games of Quidditch, like.” Harry blushed and looked away. “It sounds stupid saying it out loud.”

“It’s not stupid.” Draco tugged on Harry’s sleeve. “It’s perfect,” he said earnestly, as soon as Harry’s eyes met his.

“Yeah?”

Draco squeezed Harry’s elbow. “It sounds like just what those kids need. They deserve to have fun, to bond with someone kind, someone who knows what loss feels like. Time enough for them to learn about the war later, in school.”

Harry rocked his chair back, balancing on two of its legs and looking thoughtful. 

“Draco?”

“Yes?”

“Have you thought at all about what I said?” Harry asked. “About trying to get your magic use back?”

The sound of Harry’s chair hitting the floor again was shockingly loud in the sudden silence. Draco flinched, and slowly pushed his own chair back, away from Harry.

A look of pain flashed across Harry’s eyes. He leaned forward, hands clasped tightly together, as if to stop himself from reaching for Draco. “It’s just –”

There was a loud pop, and Hermione’s head appeared in the fireplace, her brown curls writhing wildly in the flames. Harry’s face twisted in frustration, gaze still fixed on Draco.

“Hello, Harry!” Hermione called out brightly. Her smile widened when she caught sight of Draco. “Draco! I’m so glad you could make it.”

With an apologetic half smile at Draco, Harry dragged his chair closer to the fire to greet Hermione. She was already speaking rapidly by the time Draco joined them.

“– don’t have much time before my next meeting, but I wanted to stop by with a quick update. My research has yielded several promising new leads.”

“Thank you, Hermione,” Draco said, as he settled next to Harry. He was careful to keep a foot of space between their chairs. “It’s really very kind of you to help.”

“I’m happy to,” Hermione said breezily. “These kinds of magical problems are fascinating, aren’t they?”

Harry snorted at that, but his eyes were warm with fondness. Draco smiled at Hermione and nodded in agreement.

“I started by researching life-debts,” she went on, wasting no time. “And I came across an old volume with some very interesting claims. The author argued that the way a life-debt functions is highly influenced by the circumstances under which it forms.”

“Really?” Draco asked. “I’ve never heard that.”

“Yes,” Hermione said, nodding enthusiastically. “The book was quite definitive, and it referenced multiple sources. And once I had that piece of information, everything started to make sense.” 

Eyes sparkling, she stared at them expectantly, as if they should be able to divine her conclusions. Draco thumbed at his ring, mind whirring through the implications of this new idea.

“What makes sense?” Harry demanded, interrupting Draco’s thoughts.

“Well, as we discussed, the apparition bond between you seems to function based on need,” Hermione reminded him. “And where did you save Draco’s life, Harry?”

“The Room of Requirement,” Draco cried, before Harry could answer. _“Merlin,_ of course!”

“Exactly.” Hermione beamed at Draco. “I think your life-debt has shaped itself to mirror the Room of Requirement. Whenever one of you requires something, the other is obligated to help.”

Harry looked a bit stunned. He was rubbing the back of his neck with a troubled expression. Draco wondered if he was remembering the heat in the Room of Requirement that day, the terrifying power of the fiendfyre, Draco’s panicked fingers bruising his hips. Draco shivered, then forcibly looked away from the memory. 

“I suppose that would explain the barriers, in a way,” Draco mused, after taking a steadying breath. “We can’t leave each other until the requirement is met, almost as if we’re trapped in the Room.”

“Yes,” Hermione said with a decisive nod, “that’s what I thought too.”

“Ok, so if that’s what it is, what do we do now?” Harry asked.

“Nothing,” Hermione said flippantly, as if that should be obvious.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Nothing?” 

“Life-debts dissipate naturally once they’ve been fulfilled,” Hermione shrewdly pointed out. “So I assume the best course of action is for you to continue helping each other, and eventually the apparition will stop on its own.”

Draco and Harry exchanged a look. It wasn’t that the suggestion was unreasonable, exactly, but Hermione’s words fell from her mouth in a jumbled tangle, almost like she was _nervous._ And as the initial thrill of discovery faded, questions began to prick at Draco’s skin, shrouding him in a sudden doubt.

“I don’t know, Hermione,” Draco said carefully. “That doesn’t quite add up.”

“Why not?” Hermione demanded, her tone oddly shrill.

“Harry saved my life in the Room of Requirement,” Draco said, “but I didn’t save his there. In fact, it could be argued that I did not save his life at all.”

“You did,” Harry insisted, but Draco ignored him.

“Why is he being pulled to me when I’m in need?” Draco held out his hands, weighing the inconsistencies in his palms. “If I am the one who owes the life-debt incurred in the Room of Requirement, should it not be only me that is pulled to him?”

Harry nodded at Draco’s side, looking thoughtful, while Hermione’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Well, the book did make it clear that mutual life-debts are a special case,” she argued. “Maybe both debts are shaped by the one with the stronger circumstances? The Room of Requirement is likely more independently magical than the room we were in at the Manor when you protected Harry from Voldemort.”

Draco clucked his tongue, already shaking his head. “But why now? Life-debts need to be invoked, and neither of us did so.”

Hermione’s reply came so quickly Draco had trouble believing she’d even had time to register the question.

“The reading I did on the Room of Requirement suggests that its magic can supersede other magical processes, even complex ones. It may have taken over the life-debt bond in some way, and activated in your moment of greatest need.”

“No, that’s not it,” Draco said firmly. “I don’t know about you, Harry,” he added, unconsciously resting a hand on Harry’s knee, “but getting punched by a stranger on the street was certainly not my moment of greatest need since the end of the war.”

“Fair enough,” Hermione said, biting her lip. Her skin was flushed and she appeared uncharacteristically frazzled. “I’ll keep looking into it. But in the meantime, I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. You can just carry on as you have been.”

Harry was frowning slightly at Hermione and he began to fidget in his chair. Draco hurriedly let go of Harry’s knee and leaned toward Hermione.

“Would you mind lending me those books you mentioned?” he asked politely. “I’d like to read them if you’re finished.”

“No!” she yelped. Her eyes darted sideways, then she took a deep breath and looked back to Draco. “No, I – I’m so sorry, Draco. I wish I could, but I got them from the Department of Mysteries on a special research pass and I couldn’t possibly request them again. And they can’t be removed from the Ministry. That’s just – not an option.”

“Oh,” Draco sighed. “Well, alright. Do you have their titles? Perhaps I can track them down elsewhere, or –”

“Merlin’s beard!” Hermione exclaimed, cutting Draco off. “My meeting’s starting. Got to go! We’ll talk soon.”

Before Draco or Harry could answer, the flames flared up and she was gone.

Dazed, Draco blinked at the fire, the afterimage of Hermione’s face shimmering behind his eyelids. He shook his head and turned to Harry.

“Did that seem –” Draco hesitated, not wanting to seem judgmental – “strange to you?”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, a puzzled crease between his brows. “She’s hiding something. Why would she be hiding something?”

“I’m sure she means well…”

“She always does.” Harry blew out an annoyed breath. “Well, whatever she’s not telling us, it’s not dangerous. She’d never take a risk like that, not if it could hurt me.”

“I believe you,” Draco said.

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face and got up to pour himself another glass of lemonade. Draco shook his head when Harry gestured questioningly at the other cup.

“What do you think we should do now?” Harry asked, after gulping down the drink.

“Fuck if I know,” Draco grumbled. He stood and carried both their chairs back to the table. Suddenly feeling quite cross, he swept a hand over the surface, aggressively gathering biscuit crumbs into a neat pile. “She didn’t even ask us for the notes!”

Harry laughed and clasped Draco’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out,” Harry said, rubbing his hand across Draco’s back in short, calming strokes. “Besides, it’s not so bad, is it?”

Draco’s discontent immediately fell away. “No, I suppose it isn’t,” he said quietly. Heat pooled in his cheeks, making him wish he had accepted that second glass of lemonade.

“I like knowing I’ll be there if you need me,” Harry confided, his hand still a steady weight at Draco’s back. “And it feels – safe, knowing you’ll be there if I need you.”

Draco’s breath hitched. He marveled at the ease with which Harry could say these things, at the power of his unfettered honesty. Draco ached with it, the promise of Harry’s words thrumming in his blood.

Harry dropped his hand and began to gather the empty biscuit packets from the table. “Do you want to stay for dinner?” he asked casually. “There’s not much in the house, but I can order something. Pizza? Or maybe Thai?”

“No,” Draco said regretfully. “Thank you, but I really should be getting back to the shop. I have a few things to do before closing time.”

Harry nodded, disappointment clinging to him as he disposed of the trash and deposited the lemonade pitcher and dirty glasses in the sink.

“Another night, maybe?” Draco offered.

Harry perked up at that. “Yeah,” he said, his sudden grin practically blinding. “Sounds good.” He wiped his hands on a dish cloth and grabbed a jar of Floo powder to offer to Draco.

Draco was just about to toss the powder into the fire, when Harry’s voice stilled him.

“Draco?”

“Yes?” He turned back to see Harry leaning against the table, eyes intent on Draco. A dusting of Floo powder escaped Draco’s fist, floating almost dreamily to the floor.

“Would it be a groom for you?” Harry asked.

Draco just about laughed in his face. As if anyone would deign to _marry_ a former Death Eater, let alone one who worked in a tea shop and couldn’t do magic.

But Harry wasn’t mocking him. The question was sincere.

“Yes,” Draco said. “Not _or_ for me, though. Only a groom.”

Harry gave him a little nod, smiling softly. And perhaps that was all he had wanted from Draco earlier. Trust. An admission in exchange for his own.

Draco wanted to kiss him. Surely losing him at some vague future moment could not hurt nearly as much as this constant longing? This was like a thousand tiny losses every time they parted. A new wound every time Draco had to walk away.

Draco almost kissed him. Almost.

But then he waved instead, and turned his back on Harry to escape through the fire.

***

Draco sat in the empty shop for some time that night, after Maeve had locked the doors and retired upstairs. He stared blankly at the table in front of him, not really seeing it. The ceiling creaked above him, and if he strained, he could just make out Maeve’s shuffling footsteps as she roamed about her flat, likely fixing herself a late dinner. On any other night, the sound would have been comforting.

Eventually, the footsteps stopped, and the staticky music of an old radio drifted down the stairs. Draco slipped outside then, not bothering to retrieve his cloak from the workshop, despite the heavy rain falling in bitter sheets.

By the time he reached his own flat, Draco was soaked through and shivering. He stood in the entryway, wet hair dripping into his eyes, and fastidiously removed his shoes.

He blinked down at his socked feet, too weary to know what to do next. Breathing raggedly, Draco slumped against the wall. And then the pain hit him, all at once. He sank to the ground, arms clenched tightly into his stomach, trying to hold it all inside.

When the crack of apparition came, for one wild moment, Draco thought it was the sound of his ribs snapping in his chest, his bones no longer able to contain the howls of his heart.

“Draco?” Harry gasped, immediately dropping to crouch beside him. “What happened?”

And then Draco was crying, rocking on his heels and choking on the tears.

Harry was making soothing noises, smoothing his hands over Draco’s shoulders, trying to gather Draco into his arms. But Draco was too far gone. All his defenses were shredded, his soul cut open, and everything was too raw, too exposed. Harry’s touch bit into him like a knife, painful as salt in an already devastating wound.

“Don’t touch me,” Draco spat, knocking Harry’s arms away from him.

Harry almost fell over, but he recovered himself and stood, immediately backing away to give Draco space.

“What do you need?” Harry asked quietly. His hands were scrabbling anxiously at his sides, but he made no move to touch Draco again. “Anything you need, tell me and I’ll help.”

“I don’t need anything,” Draco shrieked. “Just get out!”

“But Draco,” Harry cried, “you’re shaking! I’m here. Please – please let me help.”

“Potter,” Draco growled. “Get. Out.”

“I – I can’t! There’ll be barriers, remember? It’s _required,”_ Harry babbled desperately. His face was a white mask of anguish, and his fists were clenched now, as if he felt Draco’s pain as acutely as he would his own. 

If Draco had to look at him for another second, he would break beyond repair.

“The only thing I require,” Draco hissed, “is your absence.” The words lay shattered on the ground between them, cold and deadly as ice. 

Draco surged to his feet, wrenched open the door, and shoved Harry through it.

As soon as the door slammed in Harry’s face, Draco collapsed in front of it, body heaving with the force of his sobs.


End file.
